Saturday Morning

Waking from tense, work-addled dreams to steaming tea and porridge apparated to my bedside. Alone for one precious moment.

Yellowing magnolia leaves are shadows through droplets on the glass. The air and the floor are chill.

I lie and listen.

Out there, a blanket-wrapped child bashes at a poem about Captain Cook, while ugly cartoons blare beside him. He wrangles and mumbles until the pen and pad are chucked with a curse.

Another, retreated behind the closed door of his sanctum, to the rustle of tiny blocks and the weird recesses of his imagination.

She sniffs. Heaving on boots with tongue out, all the while arguing the case for 'No jacket', then swapping the red tartan skirt for the denim with pleats.

I lie and listen.

Swaddled, I stare at the leaf shadows, negotiating with a resistant Spirit to leave the drudge-mire of the week behind, to reject its hearts' desire for hermitage and to eke life from the precious weekend. Pleading with Humour and Grace to likewise emerge from Spirit's maudlin malaise.

Fantasizing that those looming clouds, heavy with the weight of the coming week and the infinite weeks to follow, will disperse, blown to another space and time.

Children crash into the fragile space, demanding hugs and answers. Spirit recoils instinctively but Will battles for open arms. Thought lost in the fog, Heart stirs and with it heavy slow motion.

Shower. Heat and steam. Dress. An actual dress. Heave on boots and focus on one step, then another. Children attached, I head out. Leaving the shadows for autumn sun, for hot market coffee and the chance of longed for company.