The Poetry of Every Day

The start of every day
is different, yet the same:
peer through un-curtained window
assess the sky for promise,
set mood and expectations..

Agenda similar, routine unvaried
until I’m out there,
eyes everywhere
glorying in small shy hedgerow flowers
or exuberance of roses round cottage door;
mighty mounds of cumulus,
wispy streaks of cirrus
or smooth unblemished blue.

I stop to chat to Monsieur X
in his antiquated wheelchair,
taking the air each day on his front step.
I wave at les gars as I pass the bar –
is that Monsieur le Maire I spot?
Which way at the crossroads?
I glance at church clock
for permission to choose the wild path
or admonition to hurry home.

Wild path it is.
I trudge through mud
of tractor tracks,
tangled jumble of bramble,
swerve and duck
or,
if I’ve remembered the secateurs,
snip.
Sniff the scent of grass and flowers,
and if I’ve remembered my hearing aids,
savour  insect buzz and trilling birdsong.
Stare
at a hole at base of tree stump,
trace the track through overgrowth
wondering who or what lives there.

My exercise, daily the same,
yet ever different.

This rambling effusion was originally written for Tuesday’s Poetics prompt at dVerse, but I was too late to post, largely because I couldn’t make up my mind as to the form the poem should take.   There are elements of formal poetry – alliteration, assonance, consonance and rhyme – but the words kept coming and it needs some serious shrinking. Maybe, given more time, I will discipline it into, eg, a sonnet (my favourite form).   Meanwhile, I have linked it to the dVerse prompt from Brian Ens, on prosody.