seeking a new normal

 Last week normality ceased as the broadcast came
 and doors shut on faces we greeted every morning. 
Now we move through days as if underwater;
along quiet corridors, where small shoals of children ebb and flow;
weaving their way from space to space on parallel paths; pulled by invisible currents away from the solid anchorage of familiarity.
 Hours seem longer and direction rudderless,
 as we tread water and drift with the tide 
to a place in time where a new normal can be found.

Beach combing

This small shell

Washed by waves 

That ebb and roll in timed rotation

Wearing away ridges

Smoothing sharp angles

This delicate fan

Half buried under grainy sand

Fits tight in my palm

Leaving the echo of salt on skin

And sunbaked afternoons

Barber shop chorus

The barbers has a rhythm all its own

Muted news, soft soul tunes 

  clipper hum 

and faint scratch of razor on strop

This  emporium of masculine grooming

tolerates my presence as I sit 

enfolded in soft leather sofa

breathing in sandalwood and eucalyptus

Slipping on the sixth step

There is a cat on the stairs, who stands and stares 
as I slip on the sixth step; 
my joints as stiff as his smile. 

I slip, he topples, dents and bruises bloom;
 whilst in the downstairs room the TV mutters,
masking my tumble . 

These darkening days of Winter,
 that pleat skies with heavy cloud, 
and breathe river mists over garden walls; 

slow all motion.

The numbing cold and damp transforms me 
into a stumbling creature,
 graceless and disjointed;
swathed in wools and cashmeres 
to ward off the slowly creeping stiffness 
that seeps deep into bone 
and lingers like rust on a gently rotting hull.

The witching hour

This is the witching hour; the time before dawn where a faint glow low on the horizon filters through dark skies, shepherding in a new day. 

A time of small songs, when crickets sing  oblivious as water dragons wake from sleep, warmed by lamps, eager to eat

This is the time of cats, uncurled from slumber; who pad on soft paws to scratch at doors, demanding to be let free to roam once more along high walls and down amongst the toppled stones of quiet graveyards.

This is my time; with steaming mug in hand and glasses perilously perched on nose; wrapped in words that whirl from thought to page whilst the house breathes quietly on.

rainy days and Sundays

Grey day.Steady rain slicks patio paving, and pools in empty planting pots.  Cats clamour to go out, then stand beneath scant shelter, fur ruffled by damp droplets, before scrabbling to be let back inside.

Days like these require different rhythms ; long slow breaths and the quiet rustle of turning pages. Time slows to the spatter of rain on window panes and the bubble of soup simmering on the stove......... and we dream the hours away,waiting for a gap between clouds, and a glimpse of the pale winter sun.

Jamming

Market stall apricots, warmed in August sunshine; blushing pink with ripened promise as they tumble from scales into a waiting  paper bag. This is the start of a ritual long remembered from childhood summers, when fruit would fall from bag to table; to be transformed over an afternoon into jewelled jars of apricot  jam.

 Juice slowly drips from blade to bowl, as each fruit is split ready to slow cook in lidded pot.  Scales groan under a weight of sugar, and lemons are squeezed of their juices. This is the science; a fine balance to create the alchemy of sweet amber delight.

Jam making is an art; I merely an apprentice following my mother's calm directions as I  assemble ingredients in the pan; feeling sugar, gritty under a stirring spoon, as heat begins to dissolve each granule, whilst apricots slowly slide and bubble.

Now the wait, as thermometer line creeps ever upward, and occasional slow stir keeps thickening juices from sticking. Here is the skill; an ever watchful eye, waiting for that magical moment when fruit, juice and sugar combine into the perfect consistency, to hang from spoon edge; or wrinkle on chilled saucer. This is the revelation, the secret passed from mother to daughter, to finally capture the familiar taste of childhood in a simple glass jar.