Normally people take stock of the old year in January, me, I wait until the middle of February, and I’m not even going to beat myself up about it. I had other things to deal with, and if it took me an extra six weeks to get things straightened up, then it took an extra six weeks.
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At the start of this year I was planning on which poetry events I wanted to go to in order to publicise my new collection ‘It’s All In The Blood‘. I managed a few local ones, and had a slot booked to perform at a Ludlow poetry night, right at the beginning of March. Then 2020 hit its stride in the UK.
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She brings it in with her,
the rain,
clung to the tip of her nose
and through her hair
so it’s blacker than night.
Strips out of her waterproofs
till she has shape.
Colour,
risen high in her cheeks,
on the knuckles of her hands.
Reveals the desperation of it,
crept through
zips and openings.
Slid a caress down her neck
till she bears a collar of its touch.
Trails it deeper into the kitchen,
Siren kettle
a song to sodden socked feet,
printing a vanishing trail
across the tiles.
Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes.
Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions
screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans.
Have you not been told?
Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert.
No one wants to say,
we’re all just fucking lost.
I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.
Ink will fade
given long enough.
Even stone weathers,
back to rock
with the help of time.
Carol J Forrester 
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