I meant
to write.
Since the new year
The days
and weeks have disappeared.
There
isn’t much to tell you.
We've stayed warm with gathered wood;
Offcuts from the
new Deptford Cinema site
And a
house on Albyn Rd.
And with
coal from Aldi, Wickes
And
Terry’s on the High Street.
Those
heavy duty Lidl bags
Still come in
useful.
The back
plays up a bit.
I must
admit
I don’t
gaze and gaze along the creek,
Like last
year.
But then
I’m here more than before.
The
herons haven’t been around,
They
must have other places in the winter.
I saw a
cormorant snapping at a roach;
Too big,
it got away.
A few
times, I’ve looked up, half anticipating,
And seen the darting blue flight of a kingfisher
Along
the river,
As if conjoured
up from my imagination.
It didn’t
snow, again.
And now
the spring is rising,
Faltering,
yet certain and necessary.
It’s one
day warmer, the next cold,
Then
wet, then warmer again.
Today is
cold and cloudy;
Tomorrow too?
Will
clouds smudge out the eclipse and supermoon?
How soon
before the sprouts of short green weed
Begin to
cover the creek mud?
Before
the male mallards get rapey?
No,
nobody’s been here.
Not
really, just us.
Just me
and little C.
I meant
to write.
How are
you?
Where
have you been?
