stray reflections

you write of my heart, word by word, like the january sun's sunken light. you write, to my heart, space after space, slotting in blankly without metaphor or hesitation. the deep reflected world of the life that wasn't, or that was, but lived anonymously, without knowing.

as if, of your heart. as if a believer, even though you are an infidel, unfaithful. each word key-solid, full of secrets, waiting to find you empty. the sun flares, late in the day, catching the rare essence of many things, unaware. but lateness isn't a beginning. your hands darken with time, as if guilty.

~~~

Happiness is a moment of grace. Hap: Haphazard, by chance. Robot, one of the few Czech words in the language.

~~~

on the district line today you read: '80 % of women said they trust men who txt much more than men who don't'. a woman sits opposite you with unkempt hair and light blue eyeshadow..very 70's. you thought she was egyptian. (yes, this is what this blog has come down to!). on the central line you always see much more solid figures: the boring middle classes, pig-fat, mildly content with all in the world thanks to Tesco's, Question Time, and Joan Bakewell. on the way back, a man with tightly cropped grey hair, dark slits for eyes (in fact, his eyebrows were so profusely bushy that all one could see were two deep shadows), and masses of flabby, blotched skin surrounding those eyes and tight lips.

~~~

Fascinating 'Start the Week' (for once). Must look out for John Gray's new book, Immortality. Picked up Exit Ghost for a pound at a charity shop. C bought me a book ('gifted' is what they say nowadays) and the Dougal has promised me Schama's Rembrandt's Eyes. Menashe's Collected Poems still to be found.

~~~

Ted Hughes: October Salmon:

All this, too, is stitched into the torn richness,

The epic poise,

That holds him so steady in his wounds, so loyal to his

doom, so patient

In the machinery of heaven