Thursday poem: this humdrum day with its unwieldy hours shot through with brilliant fragments

this humdrum day [1]
with its unwieldy hours [2]
shot through [3]
with brilliant fragments [4]

[1] this humdrum day…

My day (1.1) is no more interesting than anyone else’s. I called it “this boring day” in an earlier draft but I am rarely bored. It’s more that when someone at the school gates asks how my day has been I scan over my recent history and find nothing worth reporting. I often default to commentary on the weather instead. 

There is nothing terrible about my day either. The room that I work from looks over the backyards of houses owned by wealthier people than me. Further out, some blocks of flats in Sydenham pop above a long, green blush of Dulwich foliage.