This morning started very well with tasty porridge and well brewed cups of tea. I have recently taken to using a cup and saucer for my morning cuppa in the manner of a civilised person. It also has the advantage of making every cup as hot as the first- note the niftily knitted tea cosy…
Next came the unrushed, hot shower… and to begin writing something for Barbara’s Virtual Tea Towel Museum as challenged yesterday. I was in a really creative, mellow mood. Maybe a sonnet to the teetering tea towels in my airing cupboard? Perhaps a villanelle on the joys of washing up by hand… maybe not. But all this was brought to a halt by the spinning rainbow on my Mac.
Now, I generally think of myself as quite techie, clued up about computers; I am the solver of problems in our household when it comes to Windows. My trusty Mac, however, has never refused me or sulked. It sits ready for me, doesn’t sulk when I use its baby brother, the Air, or my phone. So when nothing responded, I must admit I panicked. Resorting to the tried and tested method of turning it off and on again resulted in a frozen screen. Help! I hadn’t backed it up for months, I thought. I hadn’t counted on the wonderfulness of Apple ( I know this sounds like an advertorial) and the online help. Suffice it to say, within minutes all was well, and all was well, and all manner of tech things were well. I have learned a salutary lesson, not to be so complacent and neglectful.
Which brings me back to… this blog. A grey November day , and the view from my window. Seal is singing about smiling,
“When there are clouds in the sky
You’ll get by…
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You’ll see the sun come shin-ing thro’ for you…
Altho’ a tear may be ever so near, That’s the time
You must keep on trying…
You’ll find that life is still worth-while”
( A plug here for Seal’s new standards album)
And I’m smiling too.
And here’s a first draft of something that occurs to me:
Slow light fringes the hills, early mists rest on lawns
makes gems of daisies, softens the tree’s bark.
leaves breathe and sing, blackbird bubbles its throat,
its song is for itself. In the thickening light
it flicks out wings and waits.
So let it out, begin, this breathing in and out,
this putting down of a foot
this straightening of spines and muscle stretch,
this head opening and unwanted light,
this day that will take its own pace into dark,
that does not care about your plans,
this looking out with lids that will not close.