The quietest things

The city is grey with rain again.

I'm drinking coffee ,

listening to old songs and

thinking about what joy

writing brings to me.

These  beautiful little

pearls that push into my palms

and fingers and flow out like

water from a harbour to the sea.

The light is fleeting,

rare ~

disappearing  all too quickly.

Days go by  like beads on an abacus.

Quickly, quickly.

I realised the other day

I write because I want to remember.

Each day,

each moment of life

pressed like rose petals in a book.

A book that can be returned to
to catch the perfume
of what once was.


I ( often )
wonder does it matter,

that every day
of the last fifteen years
one of my small joys is the sound of the 7am flight
passing over our house,
London bound?

It brings such calm, you see.

Oh these beautiful days.

Wear them, ( I think to myself)
like  a necklace
of pretty glass beads.


Make these moments precious
dear hearts

make them count

like

all

the

beautiful

little

pearls.

It's the quietest things, you see

that

bring

joy