Thursday morning finds me working at home again. Room is full of winter sun and I'm feeling good. Decided not to put on the radio and the world today, instead listening to Joni Mitchell's song Sweet Bird. She is the poet's choice of songwriters.

Yesterday began with laboriously rerouted journey to work. Quite snowy near the coast and it gave me the opportunity to write a random poem. Reuben texted me to say that he and Anton were on another part of the train. Contented myself with texting back a commiseration to Reub as it was too crammed to attempt to leave my seat, despite the fact I was sat between two unspeakable bloaters.

Went for a swim in the afternoon after working through lunch waiting for a meeting that never happened. Enjoyed this although only able to do backstroke with any persistence, and my various injuries made it through okay.

Had a small-brain attack this afternoon as I was convinced I was meeting Mark. Consulted diary ten minutes before meeting (after standing all the way back from London on the train) only to discover we were meeting the next day. Instead, and quite tired, I enjoyed lurking in the warm and talking to the exotic Tenerelli.


020305/Winter train

We cannot fall out of this world
But we can fall into each other.

I imagine printing your name
On the paper-white fields

Or piling snow into runways
Seen as totems from the air.

The train slides through whiteness
Commuters drift into themselves

My face is fixed in a window
Wanting something like Spring

But never ending.