A Pome a Day for a Year

Warm tendrils of light touch my closed eyes
before the alarm crescendos
and I am jostled by these photons into stupor of waking.

Morning has circled back to me
and the Sun is helping, pushing into activity.

I close my eyes and let the fingertips of our star dance
across my protected irises and am reminded
of a fifteen year old Veeg:

Sat
at plastic desk
on wooden chair
by gigantic window
in favourite subject
at unpicked school.

My book of poetry, A Choice of Poets,
splays before me, notation after doodle
adorned throughout the pages of Duffy
as we study and analyse.

I have closed my eyes,
the voice of the teacher my focus,
the information she imparts absorption,
as the Sun beams through windows.

Skidding particles of plant food
careening cross closed eyes and linking
my younger self with my current self,
though destined younger also,
in contentment.