Potato Pot

Potato Pot.

I knew it was time to stop, sit and dream
out into the cloudy blue
when I carried potatoes in their pot
not to the stove,
but out to the spare bedroom
and stood still wondering why
and where had I really been when I did it.

Am I now sitting generously filling the chair,
with pen in hand,
or is my body on one of its multi tasking errands
that never end – never ever end,
till in the dark at night I am myself
for the moments before blessed sleep descends.

The glass – no – the mug of sour wine
in my left hand -
soothes the jagged edges.
The deep red luscious roses I picked
this morning; the book; the pen; the mobile -
next to me - a still life.
My life.

The Cat – Ah! The cat Archimedes,
purring on a chair near me -
full of grace and timeless peace -
my link to times past and times future.
To Mothers and for Mothers – to Isis.
Soon a bell will ring – needs must – no fault there,
and my stumpy bare feet will pad about endlessly
getting Tea.

After cooking the potatoes.
Serving up. Washing up.
Folding, bending, turning, closing,
feeding, serving, cleaning -
should be doing all with love...
Too tired!
No time outside to wonder at the night sky
Tired – fit to die.

Outside my window the gentle rain falls.
Birds call and chortle.
The clouds roll away and over,
a wondrous thing to see...

All my life is there.

I have put the potatoes on the stove now
and returned to sanity.
No time to snatch for me -
Too dead tired.
Later on...
Accept this.

Nov 2003