A Day Off

I wrote this poem one morning, on what was meant to be a day off, in that there was – for the first time in weeks – no reason to set my alarm clock. No builders (even if it’s a bit of a mess downstairs), no weekend writing courses (even if I can’t stay away from writing itself), and no one to tell me off for being lazy ...

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Oh! The occasional day off:

The chance to lie in bed with a silent

alarm clock and nothing to get up for.

Only to wake at my normal time …

There is no agenda

Nothing has to be done:

No jobs, no chores – just relax.

But it’s 7:30a.m., and the washing is on.

The builders aren’t coming today.

An emergency elsewhere, they find.

But I’m up, I’m ready, I’m waiting;

Just in case they change their mind.

But no: they sent the electrician instead,

Knocking at the temporary door.

Where do I want sockets? What about lights? And the

new cooker goes where? And that lamp for security he saw?

This day off already has lists:

There are, suddenly, lots of things to do.

And voices from the past, coming out of the mists,

‘These jobs won’t get done by themselves …’