I always try and sit at the window at this time of the evening when the sun turns all the houses across the road golden and the blackbird is singing his heart out. No photo will ever capture it so instead I have photographed this box which I only actually looked at after I had emptied out my groceries today.
Saturday Poem
-
Death is Smoking my Cigars You know: I’m drunk once again here listening to
Tchaikovsky on the radio. Jesus, I heard him 47 years ago when I was a
starving...
2 hours ago
I am imagining a soundtrack of the singing blackbird, squeaking window sash, thump of the book hitting, and swearing cat.
ReplyDelete... I never actually get the cats LX - they're mainly swearing about being revealed to the birds
Delete