Yesterday’s small stone:
My hot feet stick to the cool smooth floor boards – by daylight streaky and pale, like caramel cooling, but now they’re grey in shadow and yellow in the street light and everything is silent except for my clammy feet padding a careful route around the toy fire engine and trains.
Today’s small stone:
I press my thumb nail in beside the stalk and the orange spits at me – its final assault. Its peel is sticky and glossy, like kitchen linoleum. This festive scent clings to my fingernails. The white centre rind resists for a moment like a single hair tugged from its follicle. Each segment comes away between my teeth, whole and safe, and then splits, juices spilling, thirst quenching.
Obviously, I’m feeling much better – eating a bit more normally and drinking the flat champomy (sparkling apple juice) from New Years, which is full of sugar and bound to perk me up a bit.
Lying on the sofa with a book, entirely devoid of perk, has its appeal, of course. But I’ve two children. And there are a number of literary magazines calling for mid January submissions and I’ve a handful of poems to sort/edit/cull before scouring my prose for something that stands alone… so I’ll take all the perk I can get, thankyouverymuch.
The coffee is cooking in its pot, all ready for when the champomy is finished.