Making It Up As I Go Along #302

MONDAY...
— Work in the evening again this week. It’s okay.
— Very foggy today. Lots of snow on the ground plus warm air above it... and you see nothing. Kind of like home.
— Listen to dad’s radio time on the CBC archives tonight. His memories of Christmas make for fine listening indeed.

TUESDAY...
— Another warm, foggy day. Do some laundry and hang out some in the morning. Work in the evening is okay. And a late night walk. First one in a few months... out for about an hour and ten minutes and I see a falcon or, more likely, an owl flying around in the meadow.

WEDNESDAY...
— Windy day and work is a pain. Nothing really in particular, I’m just not in the mood to work on fingerprints. Stick it out though.

THURSDAY...
— Ann-Marie, Sue and I at work. Sue and I hit the mall for supper... and the shift with the three of us is pretty good.

FRIDAY...
— Work is okay but a little slow. We do supper out tonight as a send off for Linda. So it’s an extended meal time on a Friday.
— Home for some TV and e-mails.

SATURDAY...
— Quiet day around the house. Fire trucks come to the building backing mine though... seems like a false alarm but it gets you on your toes.
— Few movies, couple of e-mails, and hockey in the evening make for a relaxing Saturday.


Lighthouse Weather
A hazy fog hangs over the land.
Only the distant, echoing of the seaside horn is missing.
That horn housed in a cliff top tower,
shining light brightly into the opaqueness.

Below, the sea whispers against the rocks.
It skirts in and around the crags and crevices.
Then retreats out the way it came,
leaving dampness until the next intrusion.

Damp air against my face.
Hiding the world beyond my fifty foot bubble.
Shadows of buildings and trees appear for a second,
then fade back into the grey.

Growing up, fog was cursed.
Wreaking havoc with ball games.
Lasting for weeks on end,
imprisoning us from the outdoors, even when you’re there.

But in this inner city.
Far from the sea.
It brings memories and comfort,
a rare treat lasting for a day, then gone.

Odd the things that transport you back home.