I’m not good at numbers;
words are more my thing
but I dabble in statistics
and the mathematics of probability.
Chance I call it.
I’m not often alone.
Not often silent, except
that companionable silence
when you’re lost in your thoughts,
but in good company.
Surprised all at once by a squawk,
a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds,
minding its own business,
today I’m out practising,
sitting alone in the sunshine.
Together, we come here often,
striding up the cliff-top,
dawdling through Kensington Gardens,
pointing out fading displays of dahlias
and falling leaves.
We order americanos at the café,
with a jug of hot milk on the side –
‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make
our stay last a bit longer. Today, though,
it’s just coffee for one.
I consider a cappuccino,
a break from routine;
old habits are hard to break.
‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’.
Would I change if I were left alone?
The moorhen seems content.
Does it ponder the meaning of life?
A seagull soars into the blue –
does it know where it’s going?
Is it lonely – or simply alone?
Hidden in the reedbed, intermittent squawks,
squeaks, murmurings and splashings.
The family’s grown now; time
for a moorhen to find herself
till it’s time to go round again.
I watch a pigeon’s rise and fall,
that joyous leap into the skies,
launching itself, before gliding over treetops,
so effortless, so free.
Could that be me?
Julia Duke
words are more my thing
but I dabble in statistics
and the mathematics of probability.
Chance I call it.
I’m not often alone.
Not often silent, except
that companionable silence
when you’re lost in your thoughts,
but in good company.
Surprised all at once by a squawk,
a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds,
minding its own business,
today I’m out practising,
sitting alone in the sunshine.
Together, we come here often,
striding up the cliff-top,
dawdling through Kensington Gardens,
pointing out fading displays of dahlias
and falling leaves.
We order americanos at the café,
with a jug of hot milk on the side –
‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make
our stay last a bit longer. Today, though,
it’s just coffee for one.
I consider a cappuccino,
a break from routine;
old habits are hard to break.
‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’.
Would I change if I were left alone?
The moorhen seems content.
Does it ponder the meaning of life?
A seagull soars into the blue –
does it know where it’s going?
Is it lonely – or simply alone?
Hidden in the reedbed, intermittent squawks,
squeaks, murmurings and splashings.
The family’s grown now; time
for a moorhen to find herself
till it’s time to go round again.
I watch a pigeon’s rise and fall,
that joyous leap into the skies,
launching itself, before gliding over treetops,
so effortless, so free.
Could that be me?
Julia Duke