Sunday, January 22, 2017
Rachael Mead #3
This is another very early draft and I'm almost embarrassed by how many versions of the final lines I've played around with - but it's Sunday afternoon and I'm forcing myself to post something before the week is over. I'm battling a couple of dire deadlines on freelance work at the moment so I've not spent any time commenting or offering feedback on others' work. I'm sorry. My game will lift at the end of this week. Promise.
Three days of powerlessness
Three days in and the only sounds are wind,
rain and the hiss of flame beneath the kettle
when I make a cup of tea. I don’t mind.
The quiet of the road blocked by tree-fall.
The reminder that electricity is not the fifth
element. Andrew is out clearing roads
and I’m reading on the couch when
Sue knocks on the door. Tom is dead;
the final erasure of that disease, the one
that eventually steals everything,
from his last conversation to the memory
of his wife of sixty years. She is strong
but after she leaves the grey air seems
especially sad and even a little jagged.
The world is not what we want it to be.
Our minds, those tender, playful muscles
all stiffen and seize, however hard we work
at making ourselves seem original.
Beyond the glass the green world
blurs with rain, the trees bend and crack
in allegories of wind. My heart folds
and folds itself down into a tiny thing,
small yet infinitely dense: a grain
of sand, a mote of dust, a dead star.