Last Night's Sleep Was Interrupted
Mr, having reduced his salt intake and increased his exercise regime, has gained some attacks of debilitating cramp.
Nocturnal cramp. A midnight that bites.
Pained, not entirely wakeful, he spirals down our stairs to stretch it out - misses the bottom step, crashes into the oven, knocks a crock of fruit tea over the kitchen floor, breaks the crock, the best beloved iron pot that his Mum gave him, that I make all my syrups in, that we use every day, for everything.
Mr has sadness, cramps, and a bruised knee.
We throw bath towels to the floor, soaking up spilt tea.
Put the broken pot back on the hob.
Accident? Omen? We try to sleep and find it difficult.
Somewhere upwards of our bed the moon is waning.
Early morning mist and frost we see: we too are bleary, we too are cold. Coffee must brew.
It is slow, but the sun strengthens.
Washing pegged to line. Wind blows fresh, not cold.
Dog shares our restlessness so we go down to a field where primroses crowd the banks of a stream. I pick a pile of petals, breathe the perfume in; hold one to the sun, let the yellow bloom of it reach me like a tonic.
Sunlight rides on the water.
I think about how light does that - floats on water but reflections on a wet road seem to sink into the ground.
Come home with a wet dog, a tub of flowers.
Put the broke pan out - maybe frogs can make a house of it.
Out with the old is the energy of the fading moon.
The anxiety of tired hangs around regardless.
Hook up my hammock: rest.