Climate Change

Early afternoon;
this heat,
this river,
the sky.
A skinny, scruffy sparrow that
hits the wall like something thrown,
looks around,
then flings itself elsewhere.
A car shooting past.

Since handing in my notice at my day-job,
something's changed, my writing has changed.
I've experienced a shift to a cooler, bluer colour temperature,
standing in the shadows of the years and years
when I was barely able to write a sentence, creatively;
watching them scudding across my sky.

Part of this is the fact that my feelings are changing so frequently
that by the time I come to edit something,
it's no longer current,
no longer true,
and I can't back it up,
and I lack the motivation
and conviction
to continue.

But it's not about my day-job.
By leaving, I was being true to myself.
And any cooling in climate is ultimately
not in response to that act of departure,
but rather, a natural change that in a way
is simply a response to being me.

Evening now,
England darkening;
monitor off,
sheep bleating around the nearby reservoir, wonderful,
the hush of the motorway,
keys tapping.
Moisture smelt in this Summer's day as it gently deflates,
more real than a fairy-tale, deeper.
I draw comfort from the world going on.