To Mark

I went to you in search of horseradish
Gnarled root in dark earth
Sharp white breath:
eye-watering aroma of home

I went to you in search of horseradish-
suburban treasures
Arranged in the secret comfort
of a home I believed in

I went in serach of horseradish
And found you-
Offering Carnarvon bananas, and
fresh fish from the North West-

Breath palpitating under
a fine film of western salt

The raggedy lines of beetroot leaf
All point to a belonging
swayed by wanting it too much.

Insistence on a present I
Did not yet occupy.
Perhaps cannot yet occupy.

A dreamt suburbia that
Cannot yet exist

So we drift, and although
you stole me horseradish,
although your shop was
An inkling of community

I couldn't stay.

And now all my memories
Of that suburb are taut:
Pulled tight and dry
And I live no longer salad days
But walk instead carefully,
thinking,
Along an imagined line to hope.

Head has been so full recent days. What is it with 41 year old men?

But today started beautifully. I rose into awakeness late, it was almost 7 and rain was pelting the window and the sky was heavy and gray. And then, perhaps because it was such a Timea day, I thought to wear my red coat instead of Karen and was rewarded in the pocket with the little green mp3 player I got for my birthday last year, full of Bud-music. Much dancing and excited giggling ensued. And now I have the Decemberists again, and all every other treasure that is included on the little machine.

Last Friday there was a social club 'do' at work- music to showcase our wonderfully talented colleagues- and oh the magic of the spanish. Or Guatemalan in this case. And Banana danced. And drank. And wondered later, why love works the way it does. It makes no sense at all.

And in a fog of nonsense I waited for you on Saturday, and after soup I just wanted to sit side by side with you and hold your hand and bask in a certain safety I can't get enough of. What did we do this weekend? Nothing but quiet reading time (other than the game) and some sleepytalk on Saturday night. You said 'very much'. That is enough for me. Enough, but confusing all the same.

So Banana danced. and enthused about music and in the end (although the end, as it were, is still two months away) is very glad that she decided to stay at Water.

The Blackcurrants are arriving next week, so chez Banana will be very cosy indeed, although I am taking off that first weekend down south.
And yesterday I found the dearest little package on my doorstep from the wonderful VC:
Hungarian mustard and a jar of morello cherries (or so I thought). Later last night I thought 'oh I'll just try a few spoonfuls' and they are not just plain morello cherries. They are palinka cherries. Bliss.

And lastly, the AMAL blog post I read today (from May 2008) raised the memory of love letters. And I remembered NRRD passing notes through the study window with those yellow summer flowers that bloomed between the maths portables and netball courts. And how he would suggest massage with castrol gtx.
I remembered Very Old Spice's halting, difficult, keeningly desperate letters and how I longed to be his sunshine.
I remembered dear Gareth, writing from the V festival, missing me - you are my life, now and forever. A more eloquent man I have never met.
And Sacha's love song.
And B's long emails through more than three years of contact.
And now?

Clouds of nostalgia . . .