The next poem is the last poem in my first collection, and the title poem.
These days, it seems, I am winding my clock an hour forward
with every second weekend, and the leaves on my Marc Chagal calendar
flip as though they are caught in some covert draught.
These days I haven't time for people on television or aeroplanes
who say 'momentarily' meaning 'in just one moment'.
These days – these days which are fairly unremarkable –
light falls, outside of my window, on the red brick planes
where the trees are coming into leaf. These are the days
of correcting the grammar on library desk graffiti,
the cheap, unmistakeable thrill of breaking a copyrite law.
But these days, like Cleopatra's Anthony, I fancy bestriding the ocean;
these days I am serious. These days I'm bowled over
hearing myself say ten years ago this … ten years ago such-and-such
like the man left standing, his house falling wall by wall,
in that black and white flick blurring headlong into colour.
'These Days' from These Days (Jonathan Cape, 2004), (c) Leontia Flynn 2004, used by permission of the author and the publisher.