I didn’t want to go straight back to work
After the holiday
So many memories
Still waiting to be processed
After a long day
We sleep
Our brains do
Their filing cabinet thing
What’s working memory
What’s long term
Well
Not mine, not so much
But somethings going on in there
Where’s the weekly version
Where’s the love version
The long break after a week of absorbing
New treasures
Ants and shells and fog
I still need to soak it up
Work it out
Touch every moment
Like gossamer, silk, canvas
All those different textures
Ready to be rubbed across my cheek
Loved
Remembered
I didn’t want to go straight back to work
I want to steep in it
Fall into the rag pile of my
Memories
Make a nest
Rest.
Fog framed journey home
Why does it look like walls
Cutting us off
From the moor
From the night
From the sight
Of coming home
Maybe we should be grateful
Maybe not.

We went to the butterfly park
I loved it, immediately entranced
With Buddhist iconography
“Don’t step on the butterflies,”
The receptionist said
With a totally straight face.
I know you don’t like flying things
But you came anyway
And it was too much
You had to leave
For fear of causing harm
So I went on with the other two
We saw silk parents
Atlas moths
Monarchs, the only monarchs I’m in awe of
A drying butterfly, just hatched
Flew from its case and
Clung to my leg
Rapt, I stayed
For another 20 minutes
Until it finally gave a single decisive flap
And joined its pals
In the tropical sweat-hot canopy.
You looked askance at me
You didn’t want to leave
You wanted it to be okay.
I grumbled half-heartedly
About the entrance fee
But I didn’t really give a shit about that
I just wanted you to buy me a beer.
I said it then
Looking in your eyes
I hope you heard:
We’re all brave in different ways
I will deal with butterflies
And spiders and cockroaches and
All the things that
Spike your fright and flight
You save me
Every day in a hundred different ways
We’re all brave in different ways.
Ants. They show me ants
Marching across the path
Suddenly a way to connect
With the one that avoids me
We see an evicted queen
Or perhaps one starting out alone
“They usually die”
I’m informed
Mate, don’t I know it.
We watch the incredible, impossibly straight lines of workers
Guarded by winged soldiers
They carry bee corpses
Crisps
Slices of leaf
Held aloft like
Comically large shark costumes.
They can carry
Many times their own weight
I know you do too.
This filler haiku
Was my husband’s suggestion
I quite like it, too.
She dances the flamenco
Green dress red lined
Watermelon pretty
Lush and fat
Just like me
I sigh
Older than the rest
Just like me
I gasp
Her feet stomp with rhythm
With rage
Lucia,
I think they call her
Lucia the loud one
The fierce one
Dress sweeping above her head
Eyes holding the audience
Fixing you in place
Stamp stamp
Swing
Sear and back again
She tells a story
With her feet, hips and hands
The castanets rattle out their applause
And so do we.

There’s nothing so great as the beach
Sand between the toes
Warm and chafing
You know it’ll be a nightmare later
But right now
It’s lovely
Chilly, searing cold sea
Then after a minute,
It’s refreshing
Lemonade for the sole
Lapping at heat-dried ankles
A fizzy soda pop ocean
Crackling round shells and pebbles
The kids bring me dozens
Scallops, clams, fossils
Piling treasure around me
I’m a dragon with my hoard
Hot and happy
Slightly steaming
Hungry, but not ready to leave
The beautiful, brilliant beach.

Strawberry agua,
She says,
So proud to have learnt
That snippet of Spanish
Grinning at me, at the host,
At the big glass dispenser
Packed with glossy red fruit
Chilled water
Little paper cups
Take as much as you want.
Sí, agua de fresa
I agree
Not correcting
Praising
Expanding.
Strawberry agua
She insists
And if everyone knows what she means,
Or if one person does
Or none, but she’s happy…
Why not?

Nothing moves me more than their call
Whooping joyfully over the tents
Winding up over and over
A perpetual toy helicopter
Always on the verge of either
Taking off or landing
The beating wings so fierce
So fast
Then soaring effortlessly
While their ghost cries fill the
Grey afternoon.
Then comes the night
Oyster catchers fly purposefully north east
Heading for the coast
Chasing the low tide
Yet the curlew still roams
Perhaps she’s guarding her nest
Perhaps she’s talking to a neighbour
Perhaps she’s just out doing bird errands
Humans can’t fathom.
The curlew swoops, night-cloaked and haunting
Joyfully spiralling upward in tone
Calling me to linger
Calling me to wonder
Calling me to see.