Nice bag, she says as I place it on the chemist’s counter.
Thank you, I say.
Yes, she says, admiring it.
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.
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
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?