storm dinner


Mama made fish and roasted new potatoes, and a mix of warm dark brown rice and red cabbage with cucumber segments, in dressing supped through the rice. This with blistered shards of spring onions roasted whole yesterday, starched taffeta slants on the page, (the page, the plate, there is a link), all eaten in the getting darkness, the blue white, eyes peeled open brightness of it. 

We had candles, and the candles do that thing = bringing on darkness the sooner, throwing it all the more into focus, than if they weren’t there. I brought the candelabra back in, still lit, as the weather broke - with those big first flat drops of the rain we’ve been expecting for days. 

Upstairs in darkness I remember the cod, white as the white gloam, cs within cs of flesh, slipping out and out of itself with a nudging fork. A stem of celery cooked to submission, left at the edge of the plate out of doubt, but which was really the best of the lot. 

the waves feel like warm waves, the waves of wind pulling in these encores.. the trains beat out method to it, they come in and out. The sound is different depending on the track - overground, tube, freight, long distance. 

The difference is ‘night and day’ - a phrase that’s been coming out of my mouth a lot recently. And it is - I mean, the night and the day, so close and some evenings so so slipping into and muddled with one another - but this now is night and that then was day. My eyes are dry, I feel the roundness of their white balls. There are miles between the then day and the now night. With the third flash, I count the storm away, further by the second. It steps 10 miles back, still facing this way.