sunlight on the western side, the arousal of that.
There’s a preacher offering me healing
on a glossy brochure, here’s an old man
a list of chores inside his head and a disciplined trot.
There’s the bell of someone leaving the wool shop
finishing her sentence as she steps out the door
have laid out their pastures, plastic pots
of cyclamens and premature shrubs, one
for this much or two for a little more. I stop
rosemary here, that I rub between finger and thumb,
take a sniff with me, passed the bakery
with its scone-stacked window and on
breakfast smells – sausages, bacon, the pork
fattiness of that. They give me a scone from yesterday
to have with my coffee, and I’m back out the door.
in case I pinch a piece of potato bread with a lick
of that brown sauce. And here’s everyone else, on their way
towards Sunday – quick, before everything shuts.
There’s a weather break, or a break
in the weather. The sky has cleared
and the rain has stopped. Or is that
the sun starting up again?
half-filling a half-empty glass,
claiming direction over nonchalance,
enduring summer for winters’ sake.
I’d heard about things like this –
terraced houses, feeling old
at parties, that there are squirrels
in the parks.
and I wondered why I don’t try
that too. With things,
like happiness, for instance.
Before I knew it, Monday
had come and gone, been
and done, like day-light
robbery. But there’s always
the Monday after
and there’ll be time
for this, that and the other.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lynley Edmeades has just completed her MA in Poetry at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, at Queens University Belfast. She is currently travelling through Russia and Mongolia, en route to New Zealand, where she will be resuming work as a bookseller in Wellington.