This day
may be historical

It will certainly go down
as living proof that Monday
arrived here
and I'm here in London,

Leaves spring like frogs
from the branches of trees
Summer pushes them to
move in some soft morning
breeze

and the light burning
patchwork in the back
of my head

straw coloured
sun bleached
texture like sand

rough hands
(Not mine)
making room
pushing through
the queue

wasting time wondering
what to do

and
what is it for.

This must be my menopause
the codicil
an added clause to life.

I intend not to snap
but to bend,
if I break
who then
will take me and make me
whole?

This rigmarole of the tired and
tortured soul
if this is
what this is
it will be.

It's only a Monday blue
I'm used to those
it's only a Monday blue
I'll wait until it goes.

it seems I won't be complete
until I repeat
rehearse and repeat,
repeat to the internal
beat,
it's only a
Monday blue.