i write in friends’ flats; those dreary concrete apartments with exposed piping and oil-painted walls and glazed balconies with views that make your eyes glaze over – a lignite haze. usually it’s edith piaf or leonard cohen as they prepare dinner and the unseen sun sets in a boozy glow. my own room is a sundial that stops at half past four. i write from bed to floor, and read from radiator to wardrobe door. i try to string a few chords together, brew a strange tisane for two – sage tea is sage advice – and poetry comes with its own accord from ingested rhythms (foot in mouth?). the month – all long sagas, literary letters and epic word wars – is over & winter brings the owlish delight of finally feeling justified in shutting out the world.
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
nestle into this hyperspace hibernaculum,
ply your inward wits,
woo your senses,