Overheard on a salt marsh

I haven't been cooking. I haven't cooked anything that would make you dance around with a fork anyway.

The week has ended, and I've had no urge to dunk a duck in sherry, or to alter the natural state of an aubergine.

I'm loving this sense of lethargy. Well, as lethargic as lethargy can be with a busy nearly-three year old.

And I've been reading poetry. 

Oh, hang on. I'm a cliché.

I sit in a big old armchair, with feet on a footstool. Feel lethargic, read poetry. Drink black coffee. Microwave food. 

This is nice.

What can I say, you'll just have to ride this out with me. 

You might have to read some of the poetry I'm reading. I might even tempt you to be utterly useless for a while.

...

            Overheard on a salt marsh 
                Harold Monro


            Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
            Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
            Give them me.
            No.
            Give them me. Give them me.
            No.
            Then I will howl all night in the reeds. Lie in the mud and howl
                for them.
            Goblin, why do you love them so?
            They are better than stars or water,
            Better than voices of winds that sing,
            Better than any man's fair daughter,
            Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
            Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
            Give me your beads. I desire them.
            No.
            I will howl in a deep lagoon for your green glass beads, I love
               them so. Give them me. Give them me.

            No.

...