I am still in the throes of moving and do not have Internet or phone or TV connection, nor even a desk on which to put my laptop. So this is written in less than ideal environment while having a coffee at a place with free Wifi. I just didn’t want be silent for so long. Needless to say, my current thoughts are very much taken up with packing, unpacking and cartons.
All packed up.
Not neat,
Just jumbled
Out of sight
In forgettable cartons
With reductionist labels.
At first it seemed the avalanche of boxes would be
Unable to contain a life half-lived, a life half-envied,
Detritus of consumption, dresses never worn.
Then, when the flat was laid to waste,
Bereft of colour, longing, personality,
Pale in its nothingness, reduced to so little –
The rich canvas of life together now squeezed
In his and her boxes,
His and her children,
Safely contained
In their separate storage,
To be manipulated,
Torn bleeding apart,
But bled dry.
Those leaking boxes that overflow
And mess up the new spaces
Wherever you put them down.
Not knowing where
To locate
The heart.
findingtimetowrite 