Friday, 15 March 2013



When I hear the clock chime one, I know.
I will not get to sleep tonight. I get up,
eat a cold boiled egg, make a cup of tea.
I swat at odd scraps that buzz 
round my brain: memories
of school gardens grown from seeds
handed out in brown paper envelopes
marked 'Larkspur' and 'African Marigold'; 
recollections of the interior (light-blue) 
of a train. I turn on the computer, locate 
confirmation of my return air ticket reservation 
to Wellington. Print it out. One less thing 
to worry about. The oven clock ticks.
Too loud. Too frantic. I look up a website.
Sophisticated, elegant. I check mine. 
Provincial, clunky.
I step outside, see dandelion street lights.
How deep the night feels compared
to the scattiness of daylight. How mad 
the silence of every neighbour asleep.
A taxi saunters by. The stars appear 
aimless. The ocean sounds lost. 
Everything smells of grass. For all I know, 
I could be inside a tent, the flap undone. 

Kay McKenzie Cooke


J.T. Webster said...

I really like that poem! And that cup and saucer is gorgeous.

Kay Cooke said...

Thanks Sue. :) I've had a couple of good night's sleep since I wrote this, so am feeling a lot better!

Clocking Out

 I have been neglecting this blog for some months. I think perhaps I should face facts and accept that it is indeed time to retire this blog...