Memory of a reflection
Meat
in thought, thought in meat, thought meeting meat, meat meeting thought.
One
appetizing, firm, juicy burger, home-made by the butchers, succulent, in the bag.
A
half kilo of chunky lamb, ready for the pot, with cumin, or coriander, or the turmeric I had bought
in
Stokes, from young things, with happiness, them and me, with some vegetables. The tag
on
the shelf a knowing way to tell you what is, and what isn’t OK, that might be right
for
you; the packs, enough to last for three meals, the first now,
on
an evening of wireless music, albeit a cold night
of
little (well, maybe quite a lot of ) cheer, whilst the wind and cold tow kow
to
get back the meat.
A
crisp, short baguette, picked with choice, from the local store in equanimity;
a
bottle of Strongbow, well-chilled to the core. Watching the cooking, the aromas ply in cheer.
The
bus on the way into town and back, chatting, dropping me
off
by the Newlands, cold, damp, and near.
The
noise of the fridge whirring, trying not to let me down, aged infirmity.
The
gas fire, and the glow on the mantelpiece, with the dancing china girls, the clock, time’s corm.
The
orange from the street, through the half-drawn curtains, of uncertainty.
A
wander up the stairs for a night shower, hot, invigorating, then tracksuit, socks, two t-shirts, warm;
Back
down for the music, and dinner of meat.
There,
the summer of Derek’s photographs of Cumbria make the desktop colour, warm, hearty, bright.
I
am squatting on the oatmeal mat, trying to write, to beat.
out
thoughts. And all this on a warm, overcast September night,
the
final one, here on the east coast, of thunder, lightning, and rain...
I
cannot continue in two places; or maybe I can. Maybe I’m right about the forthcoming monsoon.
But
you mustn’t think that you cannot regain
the
warmth of the rest of the year, when tree, bird, and wind play in a tropical tune
to
get back the meat.
