Lethe

Summer is not quite through with us. Somewhere
far off a patch of parched stubble ignites;
torrents rise suddenly, a fusillade
of lightning-strikes crazes the coastal sky.

The South East London suburbs keep their peace,
good-humoured although humid. Unconditioned
air accumulates in bedroom offices.
Even my darting brain grows slovenly –

not spacing-out but folding in, a migraine
signalling its onset. (And the children -
what are they up to now? One has just taken
seven teetering first-steps and a tumble;

one has been cutting paper into scraps
and taping them together: her “invention”…)
I can’t keep up. The CO2 has dulled me
down to near-houseplant levels. I need sleep

so much I dream about it. Some underworld,
mundanity, from which one might emerge
as from a heap of paperwork or laundry;
whose shades forget, not totally, themselves
and shine when summoned into company.