So its Monday, and what did I do over the weekend? Something, I hope... Jean and I went to the Field Service Group on Saturday morning, and we did some first calls, and I took Jean to some of her route calls and return visits on the way back. We went to Jackie's for supper - moussaka - and we laughed all evening. So a good day.
Sunday... I got to the meeting - the Hall is full again - lovely talk, the truth gets clearer and clearer - Christianity being called "the way of the truth".
But then, apart from getting lunch and supper for me and the Captain, it seems I did nothing. I fell asleep when I got back - and slept all night as well. It feels like running on empty.
On Friday I did make the fruitcake for the family. Not a Christmas cake by the way - not even a Christmas cake recipe. It is a great boil and bake fruitcake recipe from a Cranks cookery book Captain B bought me years ago. It is always popular - a very reliable recipe. But making it, doing my study for Sunday, and the routine housework exhausted me.
If I were writing poems now what would I be writing about old age...?
I think I will have to borrow the words of another poet, Stephen Knight:
SAND
Stephen Knight
Sand is at the door.
Its progress through the keyhole slow:
I raise both hands to hold it back before
Sand inches, grain by grain, along the hallway floor:
Among the slippers, dunes begin to grow:
Sand is at the door
Of every cupboard, every drawer
Brims, postcards on the mantelpiece no longer show:
I raise both hands to hold it back before
My deepest rooms become extensions of the shore:
Now, where the goldfish used to come and go
Sand is: at the door,
In books, on pillows, more, and more
Sand pours towards me: with one, whispered 'no'
I raise both hands to hold it back before
My waist, my chest, my neck, my jaw
And mouth succumb to sand, its undertow...
Sand is at the door...
I raise both hands to hold it back before
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