I sit dainty at my table,
Plate and finger poised just so,
When I notice workmen pausing.
From across the mud-drenched garden,
They lift their bottles, put down baguettes,
And contemplate this middle-aged white woman
In a house far too big, eating alone.
Their wave of raw appraisal hits in fluxes,
Till I rush to close the shutters, hide
My morsels in the dark.
So the pebbles clatter roundly
To fill the base of your fishbowl,
Stinging scarlet your scales of gold.
Disapproved, disproved, smirked at,
The woman sits and scribbles wildly,
While we pile our judgements up in mounds.
Ragamuffin she seeks flotsam
Debris of a human life
To make up stories
No one wants to read at all.
Inspired by the workmen, crane and building site just opposite my living room and study. Noise, dust and curious eyes have accompanied me for a few weeks now… I am almost hoping for REALLY bad weather, so that they have to stop work. [The last 3 days of pouring rain were not enough to dampen their enthusiasm.] They are not there now, it’s the sacred French lunch break.
findingtimetowrite 