Gripped by the urge to write a poem, I looked for inspiration.

A thesaurus peered at me from the shelf of my desk, and I selected a word at random

“ordinarily”

So, after a while, the drafted flash fiction – within a 300 word limit, arbitrarily set by me – came into being.

I hope you like it.

 

 

Ordinarily

Today is a dozy morning.  A morning with a cup of tea.  Tea from a pot – loose leaf, rather than a bag (bags’re too strong, really, and the flavour’s not up to it, lost in all that strength) – real tea flavour (actual taste) and robust.  The leaves, though, are a trifle fine and some always get through the strainer.  My wife bought the strainer before I first knew her, which was a while after her own love affair with loose leaf tea.  I feel tea’d up and the window above the sink beckons, I ignore the detritus of life and regard the garden; light on a frosty lawn, nearly time to sit and do a few things for work – get a few acres dug, as it were – an analogy; I can dig, but a few acres is beyond me, even with Tony’s old spade – the one he used to dig graves with.  Out in the frost, a few sparrows attack the feeder, squabbling, pecking each other.  Desperate for sustenance after a sub-zero night.  I feel for the birds, nothing but their feathers to keep them warm and some birds are so tiny, so small to generate all the heat they need to prevent blood curdling and freezing in their veins.  A magpie has a go at the suet block, pecks out great chunks, some fall to another iridescent, hopping corvid lurking in the unmown winter grass.  Strange that we’ve poisoned the land so much, that the birds now rely on us for food, which we’ve produced by growing cereals, planted on the land we’ve poisoned.  A creaking door alerts me that my wife has come in, and we chat about what shopping I need to get when I pop out after work.

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