ding... ding... ding...

[shapeofthings]

Wind chimes hang on the washing line,
Slowly rusting over the dampest summer in many years,
Sunny days outnumbered by their gloomy counter-parts,
Moping low and close and grey, grey, grey.

Rain til the lawn turned squelchy under-foot,
And the carefully-planted herb seeds rot into sweetening soil,
Moss creeping over the exposed pavers, slippery-green,
And still the drought does not break.

***

I've been in a funny mood of late; a melancholic self-destruction borne of nothing-in-particular, or perhaps my hormones are just off-balance (again). (Blood has been drawn; results tomorrow.) Today, in an attempt to shake the lingering grey, I preserved the summer's lemons and turned limes into sweet, creamy curd. Josh came by and collected a few more of his things. A tiny blue fish died.

I think I need more time to stare at the sky...