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.