maybe for a week or more,
the curs sleep. I square my shoulders,
hold my chin parallel to the world,
point my nose
A jaunty walk, a go-getter smile –
both come easy on days like these,
yet I never forget;
the curs lurk.
I hear them snore,
my stomach lurches when they turn,
cataloguing my gems
until breathing is easy again,
blinding every sense to the sighs, the snorts,
the crawling taunts
of a disturbed cur.
If it retreats into still sleep,
I have succeeded in my quest for peace,
but too often
leads into a curdling cry
and the pack wakes,
in its vicious intent.
Attacking the threads in my mind,
they tangle and snap the intricate design
whose painstaking lines
create a picture
As I am currently out of reach of the Internet most of the time, I’m unable to keep up with my reading, and my posts are sporadic, which is why my response to Kira’s Sunday Scribbles Challenge is two days late.
©Jane Paterson Basil