I’ve been thinking for a while that if by some terrible accident I were to drop dead, someone would have to deal with the pile of my old diaries currently gathering dust. I flipped through one just now, looking for something that could be squeezed into sonnet form, and this is the squeezed thing:
November verse 5: On looking into my 1985 diary Lists of letters owed and written, phone calls made and cheques to post, names of people long forgotten, to-do items ticked or crossed: pages only good for trashing, lacking even grounds for blushing. Then I found this ‘Day of Rest’, a random Saturday, sun-blessed. Our three-year-old was with his grandma, Seven with his Sapphic aunts, and you and I had seized the chance to lie-in late, breathe slow, surrender to the moment, sit and smell the petrichor, and all was well.
Me fail? I fly! 