I wrote this last night about my day while at Free Frame of Reference. I started this year feeling pretty drained of all poetic or creative feeling and now steadily I feel it coming back.
I’ve had a strange day, a tightly wound green tea fuelled spring am I. A friend texts ”is TV dead?” and things go sideways from there. The washing machine seems to thrum ”so it goes, so it goes, so it goes” with each sloshing revolution. I look at the ceramic blue bird of happiness my Mother bought for Christmas, he is smug and shaped like a teapot in his marine glaze winking.