Nothing Much

I ought to be marking my return to active blogging with reports about the wonderful holiday I've just had: Kos, Nissyros, Patmos, ancient towns, mediaeval castles, monastries, salt lakes, flowers and butterflies, beaches and food, the luxuries of time beyond work and the web.

Instead I'll commence with a redraft of a poem. This one used to go under the grand title of "Love Poem No 9":

Nothing Much

Look how quiet the room is: cats
whisker behind sunlit curtains
for spiders; knock a fork from a plate
as they nose through rice for meat.

I sit and watch fish - each shadow
a life behind the green scum
growing on the glass. I sip coffee,
wipe the cold drug from my chin.

Phone tones switch me on: your voice
triggers muscles to tango lips and tongue,
stretch me beyond my teeth as we chat
for a while about nothing much at all.

It's good to be home!