Hothouse flower air presses on my skin
there will be tennis for tea
I’ll be the mascot, and maybe
restrain the dog when they begin
You read, holding my summer in your hands
I hate sunglasses but wear them anyway
so I can see in your eyes what the words say
as they fall from the pages and dance
The horses rub their heads together
I press my face into the grass
watch the ice melt in my glass
and catch a small soft feather
I’ll go and get fresh water, change your book
the scent of roses hovers over crackling dry dirt
strokes a shiny new blackbird
and settles in an old hat, asleep on its hook
The stone kitchen floor is cold on bare feet
the slow treacly ticking of the clock
echoes the sound of the following dog
I pet him just to feel his warm body breathe
Through the glass I see your hazy form
next to the roses that shiver in the heat
knowing
 tonight the thunder will beat
as the heart of the longed-for storm
On the windowsill lands the little grey pigeon
that once sat sickly panting in a cardboard box
when I was frightened of the ticking of all clocks
and hoped I could trust in a good premonition
There were grand expectations
that sounded like a nervous finger playing pizzicato on a violin
as I waited for something to begin
with a hurried, breathless kind of patience

“No, don’t bark at the bird, just look!
Anyway, we ought to go and find that book”

© Eva Weggelaar

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2 thoughts on “Premonition – Eva Weggelaar

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