Wednesday, 13 April 2016

Staying at Furnace Farm

I can't remember if I have ever put this brilliant little poem into my blog before, but in case not, here it is.   We were talking about time, and metaphors for time, on fb today.

Staying at Furnace Farm
by Alison Brackenbury

All houses have noises.  In Maggie's old house
I hear a rush.  It is taps, I think, water.
Unsteady with dreams, I go to the window.
No rain beats the curtain.  The night is half over.

I have heard time.
She ran down the stairs
like a girl to her lover.

Can't say I made wonderful use of my time today, but I am so tired.  We shopped in the morning. I made us some lunch.  The Captain went off chasing the butterfly herds and I parcelled up 6 of my magazine routes, with little cards and tracts.  I am hoping to do about half in person this month. I called on one very local lady yesterday.  She asked me in and we talked for about half an hour. Then I had a terrible job getting out of her low armchair!   My knees don't work as they did, and now I can't use both arms to pull myself up with...   She wants me to call by with May's magazines and have a cup of tea, but ring her first. We agreed I would have to sit on a dining room chair.

As time rushes faster and faster down that staircase, and the family arthritis tightens its grip, life becomes more and more difficult.   It is wonderful to be alive though, on this amazing planet, a blue and white jewel "hanging upon nothing" in this awe-inspiring universe.

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