rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2026-05-23 11:56 pm
rejectomorph) wrote2026-05-23 11:56 pm
52/444: Better?
It might be the fact that it's now getting dark so early in the evening that has me losing track of time and not getting an entry posted before midnight. Now my brain full of lint felt the heat leftover and went quiet quietly. I have eaten toast instead of dinner, as though a bit of butter could make up for the blandness my slacking has brought. Now that I think of it, all the day's tasks went undone, and so am I. Maybe I'll do better tomorrow (today now) and if that bird singing through the night outside my window has anything to do with it I'm sure I will. I'm pretty sure it's saying that tomorrow (today) will be cooler than today (yesterday now) was. That should help.
Ooh, chocolate for bedtime. I feel better already.
Sunday Verse
by Simon Armitage
The bridle-path, the river bank,
and where they crossed I took a length
of hazel bark, and carved a boat
no bigger than a fish, a trout,
and set it down and saw it float,
then sink. And where it sank
an inch of silver flesh declared itself
against the sun. Then it was gone.
And further south, beyond the bridge,
I took a nest of cotton grass
and flint to make a fire. Then watched
a thread of smoke unhook a pair
of seed propellers from a sycamore
which turned together and became
a dragonfly that drew the smoke
downstream. But the fire would not light.
Then at night, the house at the mouth
of the river. Inside, a fish,
a trout, the ounces of its soft
smoked meat prepared and on a plate.
I sat down there and ate. It is
the way of things, the taking shape
of things, beginning with their names;
secrets told in acts of sunlight,
promises kept by gifts of rain.
Ooh, chocolate for bedtime. I feel better already.
Sunday Verse
Song
by Simon Armitage
The bridle-path, the river bank,
and where they crossed I took a length
of hazel bark, and carved a boat
no bigger than a fish, a trout,
and set it down and saw it float,
then sink. And where it sank
an inch of silver flesh declared itself
against the sun. Then it was gone.
And further south, beyond the bridge,
I took a nest of cotton grass
and flint to make a fire. Then watched
a thread of smoke unhook a pair
of seed propellers from a sycamore
which turned together and became
a dragonfly that drew the smoke
downstream. But the fire would not light.
Then at night, the house at the mouth
of the river. Inside, a fish,
a trout, the ounces of its soft
smoked meat prepared and on a plate.
I sat down there and ate. It is
the way of things, the taking shape
of things, beginning with their names;
secrets told in acts of sunlight,
promises kept by gifts of rain.