Fermenting

I have been fermenting today,
There is a restlessness.
It produces gaseous exchanges.
That distend me and burst out at intervals.
It is yeasty,
Like my bread dough.
It is damp and mouldy,
Like my Winter wet house.
And it fizzes like Kombucha.
There is a sickening sweet smell pervading,
Like mature cheese.
And it craves sugar,
To feed its voracious appetite.
Perhaps some crispness,
Sunny Summer salad,
And light exercise in a drier climate will dispel it.



 

Another Grey Wet Day

Chilled to the marrow,
Cold weighs heavy on every joint.
So in bed I sit and write.
Thermals on,
And my 'hottie' my best companion.
This torpor,
With only my mind wandering unfettered.
It roams outside in the natural landscape.
A montane heath,
Delicate herbs and spiky shrubs,
A babbling rock strewn cascade,
Round lichen covered boulders of granite.
My body in malaise,
Indoors.
My mind suffocating,
Gasps for the reviving air of outside.

Blue versus Grey

It was two things,
The blueness,
Between billowing clouds,
That slowly sailed across the sky,
And the warmth of the sunshine,
That kissed the bare skin of my face and hands.
It was these,
That lifted every aspect of my being.

The soft dry ground on which I lay.
And the caressing breeze,
That played like a lover with my unfastened  hair.
Added to the effect.
I could smell the familiarity of frost-seared grass,
And hear the country sounds,
Of those on hoof, paw and wing.
And I felt calm.

But all too soon,
Despite the patches of blue,
The sun's warming rays were taken prisoner.
By a cold grey cloud.
I was suddenly frozen to the core.
My idyll broken,
I went inside,
To the warmth of the fire.

Winter Sun

This morning unveiled of mist, the winter sun is out.
Lengthens the shadows cast on my notebook.
White pages illumined,
Contrast the distinct outlines of my hand,
And the moving tip of my pen.
Against the rays my eyes squint - a compromise,
That I may bathe in warmth,
And enjoy reprieve from the persistent cold, damp, grey.
I feel the gloom lift from my heart.

When you are too cold

When you are too cold,
You can't sleep and everything aches.
When you are too cold,
Your body and mind becomes indolent and goes on strike.
When you are too cold,
You want to eat stodgy carbohydrates and warm sugary drinks,
Like cake and hot chocolate.
When you are too cold,
Outside looks even colder and less inviting,
You think about moving to warmer climes.
When you are too cold,
Only laying in a deep bath,
With an endless supply of hot water,
Will cut it.

Sleeping Cold

Two nights I have been sleeping cold.
Well,
One night really.
The other I didn't,
Sleep that is.
I was too cold,
To sleep.
Minus ten sleeping bag,
Thermarest on stretcher,
Tent on tarp,
Everything sealed up,
Wearing thermals,
Trackies,
Socks,
Three layers of shirt,
Plus a polar-fleece jumper,
Woolen beanie.
Second night,
Even resorted to a hot brick from the campfire,
Wrapped in newspaper.
Still cold.
All the bits not near the brick.
Until eventually the brick too,
Cooled.


.

Ten to Two

We are back to 'that' time of year.
When you wake and rise in the dark,
And six o'clock closing,
Is also in the dark.
Frost means;
A slippery back step,
No more tomatoes,
Feeding out,
And Winter diesel in the car,
(so don't refuel on the coast).
A hot water bottle and chilblains,
Are your nightly companions.
It's imperative to keep the fire going,
ALL night,
You listen for the kids coughs and snuffles,
And have eucalyptus oil ready for the vaporizer.
It is 'that' time,
When your house has damp mouldering clothes hanging from:
The old wooden cot you have suspended above the slow combustion stove.
The dual clothes horses tethered in prime loitering spot in front of the fire.
Sheets adding an extra dimension to the curtains, sharing the ends of the rods.
Sometimes even the back of a chair is employed to drape a damp towel.
So why does your cosy home resemble
A Chinese laundry?
Simple...
Washing only dries between the hours of ten and two.