Everyday poetry

The days and weeks have a rhythm to them - some might call it a rut. I'm going with rhythm.

So nothing special about this Sunday. The usual gentle start to the day. Papers, breakfast, cats snoozing in the sun.

And music. Sacred music for sure, this is Sunday after all, and the two of us do have a depth of formal religion deep in our background. So, the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom by Rachmaninoff poured out of the music system (our neighbor is away on a trip) and washed over us. Can't understand a word of it - and you don't have to. 

Truth be told, I do catch a word or two here and there. I have an ear that picks up patterns. But mostly I let it flow over me.

The afternoon had little more than lunch out at a family restaurant, noisy, sit where you please, and have lemon meringue pie and fun banter with the waiter. A few errands - coffee beans being of importance, else Monday cannot be survived.

More music, even if dishes and laundry needed tending. Then reading later into the evening while Gaelic or Italian or Deep Southern English set to music wove tales of love, loss, heartbreak.

Yes, I'll go with rhythm.