Nice Bag

Nice bag, she says as I place it on the chemist’s counter.

Thank you, I say.

Yes, she says, admiring it.

Good looking.

Compact.

Square-shouldered.

Sturdy.

Not likely to topple over.

A bit like me, on a good day, I reply

She smiles, the sort of smile that says, I better humour this guy, he might be dangerous.

Okay. Well, that didn’t work

800px-A_glass_of_red_wine

I have a very bad feeling.

Tell me I’m wrong.

That I have written myself into obscurity.

That I was too clever by half.

That no one knew what the f*** I was writing about

in the previous post ‘Not a nightingale ode’.

It was a glass of red wine.

But that’s what happens when you put up a post

while you’ve been drinking

while you’ve been rhapsodizing about a glass

of red wine

The Lake

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Mountains loom over it.

Dragonflies dawdle overhead.

A light breeze blows quilting the surface.

Two kayaks lie on the banks of the boathouse

red prows nudging the water.

An old railway dam steam trains

Once guzzled from.

Now I drink its tranquillity

Store it against the coming week.

 

*have you a tranquil place you go to for replenishment or a piece of music you listen to or picture you look at?