Eilidh G Clark is currently working towards her Creative Writing MLitt at the University of Stirling. In her spare time, she writes book reviews under a pen name for a national newspaper and works part-time for The Red Cross.
Prods me through vertical blinds.
I am slumped on an un-reclining recliner with
Warm-breath-blowback burning my cheeks.
My toes curl like a fist on the carpet, as cold as the kitchen tiles.
I cannot move.
There is a pork and apple loaf
Baking in the oven
Two hours too soon
And a laptop on standby.
I am waiting,
I have been waiting for years,
For that phone call, that chance,
But it will not come
Not in this bitter, cold, dark afternoon,
Not in this room.
I need to put the light on
But I won’t;
The dogs will think they
Can go out to play and I can’t bare the dampness, the half night day,
That is turning all the orange brick brown.
I am writing, or at least I am typing, anything except
What I ought to write. But I will wait a wee bit longer. Until I am
Kicked up the arse by the artificial light of night, when the start of time begins to run out.
It’s going to be a late one,
Writing by light-bulb and shaded by undusted cobwebs.