They’re purple
but blue better rhymes
The hyacinths nosing us
with their blooming scent.
Us – the other houseplants,
the fridge, the drying linen
on the clotheshorse,
the competing scented candles.
The bold blue hyacinths
exude regardless
and bloom out of their pot.
01/04/2018
—
The fridge is humming this morning as I sit at my table and prepare this post. I woke before my alarm set for 06:45. Today is Friday and from my table, a small dining table with black hairpin legs, in the upper reaches of my loft room I see the neighbours’ garden yards. The blossoming trees at the far end have ended their week-long display. The petals fell in confetti piles on the flat garage roofs and collected on the pitched roof of my neighbour’s garden photography studio.
The spring burst now is a young tree flowering in pink, balls of blossoms clustered on its twiggy branches. There’s more going on: striking red photinia and the new greens; birds returning to my rooftop. I have to remember it was only a few weeks ago that the trees were still bare, the world desaturated.
Now I tell myself, “But something was waiting.”
Today’s poem, like many of my vignettes, is a daily scene captured. It dates from 2018, but it could have been a spring scene last year or today. The clotheshorse, the scented candles, the linen drying and the humming fridge, they all remain.
That is no bad thing.
—
This poem is included in Jangle between Jangle, a collection of verse written while jangling to-and-fro across London during the commute in 2018, when commuting was still a part of work-life jangling. Follow BQ on the gram (@beadedquillwrites) and Facebook.
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Beaded Quill 