52/337: Quiet Urp

[rejectomorph]

Getting through Sunday. I'm feeling a bit nauseated. I might have eaten something I shouldn't have, and also have developed a bit of headache. My hope was to do some laundry today, but now I'm not feeling it. There's no place to puke in the laundry room. Maybe I'll put a bit of water in my footbath basin and put it beside the bed for emergency chundering, and then just nap for a bit. Other than the nausea it's a pleasant enough day, if still a bit on the chilly side. I wish I could enjoy it.




Sunday Verse

Personal Helicon

by Seamus Heaney


As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.