Bad mood betsy

My dear friend Kitty wrote a very inspirational blog this morning about conquering the monday blues. I must admit I am struggling...maybe it's because i'm just not a morning person and I'm fighting to keep my eyes open even though I had an early night. My night was filled with nightmare's I woke up to but couldn't remember...my family I think, like that time i dreamt that i was trying to protect them from bombs but they just kept running towards where the explosion was coming from....or the nightmare when my brother got a snake bite and i tried to get help from a nearby office and nobody would listen to me.

I just went for a walk to the post office and thought of the great weekend I had and then thought of all the things I wanted to say on my blog today and I decided that if I blog today I am sure I'll have you all slitting your wrists by the end of it but you'll also think I'm a terrible person, so I'm gonna rather save it for when the mood strikes and leave you with a beautiful poem that a friend sent to me this morning...I'm not sure who the poet is!

HOLIDAY ROMANCE

They run their fingers through my ferny fields,
strip nearly bare to touch my sand-brown skin,
cry out at all my practised tricks –
the waves' arched backs, and soft exploding sighs.

The next day they come
warily, on tiptoe with small gasps,
lie with me on the huge bed of the sea,
and stroke me, move with me on liquid limbs

till their hair is tangled and their pale wet bodies tired
and they imagine a return to large sun-creamy wives
who'll towel them down
until their chilled flesh stings.

None of them will leave these marriages for me,
though they all dream of it –
buying a place together where we'd both grow fat
living on ice-cream and brimming surf.

But soon they take their tearful leave
load their cars up, whisper sweet farewells
and abandon me to winter's shut cafés
and gales like sobs, the beaches goosepimpled with rain.

I like to think of them back home,
shaking out their clothes
and finding, caught like perfume on a scarf,
stray grains of sand they let run through their hands.