Clothes were chosen for horizontal zing (a sofa awaited); colours for luck, bottom up: red, yellow, purple, petrol blue. Textlings and fervour too shone in vivid hues. Whenever I’m out (usually escorted by one of the lovely M.s), I push presence to the hilt. The ship is sinking! This old salt has half a spell’s grace and will return to ghostliness; not nailed to the mast though, just to the mattress until further notice.
I’d long looked forward to Palewell Press Mini Book Fest – a rare opportunity to read my work, to meet and listen to other poets. Fatigue left slivers of recall only, instants illuminated as if a match had been struck in the dark, of a bard’s wide gestures, arcanely numbered verse, poems spoken for an absent author, a little conversation. I know I was happy. Delights were shared.
In the evening, head brimming with naught, I heard fireworks. Guy Fawkes Night. Body was churning with pain. In the unlit room my yellow skirt glowed like a flame.