The Morning

 

The microheads of the daffodils on the window sill,

a bunch of birch trees in a decent distance, a colony

of fir trees further afield. The clouds, fluffy and kind of greyish

instead of pure white, and the pale blue background

of the sky, uninterested in making

a lasting impression.

 

A memory of a plane trip: the sky unnaturally

 at an arm-length distance; then a sudden switch

of logic: a human presence above the clouds, turning

the order of the world upside down.

The Penguin Dictionary of English Idioms on a bookshelf.

 

The black round velvet cushion facing the room

with its unembroidered side.

A white canary in a half-opened cage looking up to

an old black raven on a woman’s head; the woman, naked-

-breasted,  sitting in an armchair on the red background

of a framed picture, her left arm much longer

than the right one. A piece of a poppy-seed cake cut

 

in two, a silvery knife like a lightning or a stainless-steel river

between two mounds;

a small blue cup on an empty square

of a white plate; three long red peppers

crowded in a fruit bowl with cucumbers and

lemons.

 

A title in thin golden letters on a book spine

saying  Lost Geography. The prospect of

a train journey, postponed, to Vienna.

Coffee in a mug brought from the Orkney Islands

dark blue, with some undecipherable promise

at the very bottom.