The milk went sour overnight… I often remember dreams I have had, they always seem to make sense, which is normally the opposite of most people’s dreaming. Damage on my fingers will not heal and flaking skin, resulting in such soreness. Sunshine and blue skies at last even though the day is done, it takes light from the sun 8 minutes to reach me, it’s rays hitting the wall, where I follow its progress until twilight.
Twilight is a mystical time, the plane between the day and the night. As a child it signalled the last hour of being allowed outside, to be at play, time to put my diecast cars away and come indoors. Crowded and humid rooms, noise, heated voices exchange views, and by the time the ten o’clock news arrives it’s time for bed.
Bed is much more than sleep, it’s a less anxious time for many people, no more activity, no more visitors, no more people at the door, quiet cometh at last. A time of pain for some, aching limbs, restlessness, nightmares. A time for pleasure for others, excitement, anticipation, orgasm, albeit discreetly and very English… and still the milk went sour over night.
Written in May 2015.
Political Poems & Others 