Late Lunch Poems

Friday 3rd September

Day 135

With my husband absent, I notice I live in another rhythm - moving to the beat of being temporarily single - with a pussy cat and friends. I’ve been going to bed very late. Today I had lunch at 5 pm.

After my sojourn in the crowded town - hairdresser, Truprint, library, cashpoint machine, Waterstone’s - I walk home, my stomach growling with hunger. I pile my plate with yesterday’s salad and the cold borlotti beans which are even more garlicky and unctious and earthy on the third day. And a fat cheese straw from Sainsbury’s. I carry this late lunch outside. The sun is still hot on the patio table, the rest of the garden in deep shade.

I open my new book - called “Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes - Selected Poems by Billy Collins. My niece, a poet herself, reminded me in her daily Haiku gem that I’ve been meaning to read his poetry. Ever since June, when our little writing group in France sat on squashy sofas one evening after supper, and read him aloud to each other and we laughed till the tears ran.

Now I am careful not to let the oily dressing on my rocket leaves flip onto the pristine paper while I eat and read. Sometimes his words make me want to cry. And sometimes I laugh out loud, alone in our evening garden, the giant poplar tree above me about to throw its long shadow across the page.