Believe in the holy contour of life
For Sarah Lee
Tristful and grey, the day languidly comes into focus. The howling of the wind and the slap of rain against my bedroom window last night gave way to a coma-like slumber. Waking from it proves problematic. I cannot shake it off. I sit on the edge of my bed. I fight the compulsion to ring in sick–or to just not show up and insist it was an emergency annual leave day—I can lie. I can lie. I sit on the edge– resist falling back into rumpled duvet womb.
Time elapse—I stand in the warm glow of halogen lamps—clean, pressed, blurry eyed—and the kettle goes on. The kettle goes on. The kettle—it whirls and gurgles like a hash pipe of old—seducing me to promises of all things copasetic—it will be fine, fine, fine.
Sacramental cup on counter, blessed Assam seeping, swirling–fragrance across my consciousness finding its way into my depth and working magic from within—bringing the full light of colour to my frame of reference.
The sunrise of a desert sky blooms before me. This sunrise from my childhood spreads through time and space to reach me in England—here and now.