Thursday (again)

A nothing, first draft day.  Waiting,

As if in storage.  Packed away under,

High white cloud which lies like a dust sheet,

Not a shroud like low, thick, winter cloud.  Nor,

A somnolent pause as autumnal fog.

But a break in the play,

Whilst the almighty rearranges

scenery before the week’s denouement.

 

So I eat slowly,

Take stock and smile.

Giving quiet thanks for what is done,

And that which is yet to come.

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