The sweetness in a bitter cup of tea,
one spoonful of sugar less;
the eloquence in silence,
the sadness at the heart of jollity,
the pareidolia of seeing patterns
where there is none;
the pitter patter of a pandemic
coming down the pike
Someone once told me you can tell what the weather
Will be like by studying cows in a paddock.
If they’re standing, she said, there’d be
a good chance of rain, whereas if they were lying down,
you could count on fine weather. Or it might have been
The other way around. What a load of bull, I thought.
What if half were standing and half were lying down?
Would that mean a 50% chance of fine weather, or to put it another way,
A 50% chance of rain, depending on whether you were
A glass half- full or a glass half -empty sort of person? It seemed a little dodgy.
What if, for instance, in one paddock all the cows were lying down
while in another, they were practising synchronised standing?
Wouldn’t one cancel out the other?
And why cows?
What about prognosticating pigs, soothsaying sows, auguring alpacas?
The list goes on. I decided to go back to the Bureau forecasts.
At least they get it right half the time.
I’m hunting for my birth certificate
once again
to prove that I exist.
They seem to need convincing.
Isn’t it obvious? I ask
but obviously it isn’t.
They need that slip of paper.
In fact they insist upon it.
Doubting Thomases! I think
almost inviting them to touch me.
But I hold back
almost afraid to touch myself.
What if ….?
Perhaps I’ve gone around kidding myself
all these years.
Yes, I think, that slip of paper would help.
I hunt for it furiously.
If only to convince myself.
Caravaggio's 'The Incredulity of St, Thomas' courtesy of Wikipedia
John Malone 