After A Quarrel

by Susan Abraham


Today, she walked into the
wound of your heart, and
you would have stopped with
a start,
if you had seen her then.

Maternal shadows had
dressed her well for
the swell of an unbroken
corsage that tripped at
her breasts and masqueraded
her sorrow for bloom.

Such flaws, her pretend bodyguard
for desperation, a new desire to
look beautiful is made best
from tears of old,
suddenly turned to gold.

And so was her allure, that too
sharp-eyed, sudden and sure.
And now you would never have
guessed how when she came close
to where you often met, it
felt like she had tiptoed
into an open wound.

There was blood everywhere
and her black
gown got bandaged by the
scar of skin, still bleeding as
fire on ice and flesh half-cooked
on burning sand.

Her sadness hovered like ghosts,
you could not see it,
hiding in eyes painted to look
like a bridal boudair that
would hold the imagination hostage,
in its power and its splendour.

And then when she stared enraptured,
you would be the first to oblige,
putting the quarrel behind you and
taking her into your arms
as the sea would hold the swan
and the sunshine would hold
the land.

Now you would offer her your
injured hand that even as she
danced upon it a song of love
and swung her skirts with
relish, she your queen, forgiven,
scolded, and all so nicely
cherished.

And swinging from the pain of love,
only you could slip that snatched-up
wedding ring back onto her finger
and where you had once kissed away
her splinters, only
you could turn her sparkling fire
from its signature love
of ash and buried tinder,
into a husband's shiny trove
of lustre and secret hoarded treasure.

After A Quarrel

by Susan Abraham


Today, she walked into the
wound of your heart, and
you would have stopped with
a start,
if you had seen her then.

Maternal shadows had
dressed her well for
the swell of an unbroken
corsage that tripped at
her breasts and masqueraded
her sorrow for bloom.

Such flaws, her pretend bodyguard
for desperation, a new desire to
look beautiful is made best
from tears of old,
suddenly turned to gold.

And so was her allure, that too
sharp-eyed, sudden and sure.
And now you would never have
guessed how when she came close
to where you often met, it
felt like she had tiptoed
into an open wound.

There was blood everywhere
and her black
gown got bandaged by the
scar of skin, still bleeding as
fire on ice and flesh half-cooked
on burning sand.

Her sadness hovered like ghosts,
you could not see it,
hiding in eyes painted to look
like a bridal boudair that
would hold the imagination hostage,
in its power and its splendour.

And then when she stared enraptured,
you would be the first to oblige,
putting the quarrel behind you and
taking her into your arms
as the sea would hold the swan
and the sunshine would hold
the land.

Now you would offer her your
injured hand that even as she
danced upon it a song of love
and swung her skirts with
relish, she your queen, forgiven,
scolded, and all so nicely
cherished.

And swinging from the pain of love,
only you could slip that snatched-up
wedding ring back onto her finger
and where you had once kissed away
her splinters, only
you could turn her sparkling fire
from its signature love
of ash and buried tinder,
into a husband's shiny trove
of lustre and secret hoarded treasure.

After A Quarrel

by Susan Abraham


Today, she walked into the
wound of your heart, and
you would have stopped with
a start,
if you had seen her then.

Maternal shadows had
dressed her well for
the swell of an unbroken
corsage that tripped at
her breasts and masqueraded
her sorrow for bloom.

Such flaws, her pretend bodyguard
for desperation, a new desire to
look beautiful is made best
from tears of old,
suddenly turned to gold.

And so was her allure, that too
sharp-eyed, sudden and sure.
And now you would never have
guessed how when she came close
to where you often met, it
felt like she had tiptoed
into an open wound.

There was blood everywhere
and her black
gown got bandaged by the
scar of skin, still bleeding as
fire on ice and flesh half-cooked
on burning sand.

Her sadness hovered like ghosts,
you could not see it,
hiding in eyes painted to look
like a bridal boudair that
would hold the imagination hostage,
in its power and its splendour.

And then when she stared enraptured,
you would be the first to oblige,
putting the quarrel behind you and
taking her into your arms
as the sea would hold the swan
and the sunshine would hold
the land.

Now you would offer her your
injured hand that even as she
danced upon it a song of love
and swung her skirts with
relish, she your queen, forgiven,
scolded, and all so nicely
cherished.

And swinging from the pain of love,
only you could slip that snatched-up
wedding ring back onto her finger
and where you had once kissed away
her splinters, only
you could turn her sparkling fire
from its signature love
of ash and buried tinder,
into a husband's shiny trove
of lustre and secret hoarded treasure.

I've enjoyed the re-invention of my writing voice on this blog, after a long break in creative writing. I wrote heaps in my teens and early twenties, then I became a fashion/celebrity journalist and later stopped writing creatively for about 5 years. Working as a journalist, I wrote no poetry. Yet for me, poetry shapes the essence of everything
I also had poems published in the small poetry presses in England before I had anything published anywhere at all.

But here on this blog, just having fun experimenting with my voice, I forgot for awhile the agents & publishers. Recently, I discovered a flair for comedy-writing. And I also love my children's stories. In fact, this blog has proved a good experiment for me.

But I must get back to the agents and publishers. I must, just must endure that gruelling task. I promise to keep you all updated if good news comes around.

Next week, I'll be back to sketching comedy and perhaps even trying out a play excerpt on this blog. This is the first poem I wrote when I returned to creative writing recently. Poetry is like my shadow. I take it for granted when it's there but miss its elongated whims when it's not around. This short simple poem - which was my first disconcerted effort - has already appeared in 2 websites online in America & India.

I must say I feel a bit wimpish as the rest of you write fabulous poetry.



When You Come To Me

by Susan Abraham

In tossed-up dreams, like a whirlpool
cascading up a sunlit storm,
your soft skin stored in a dusty calm
and from when
the loving hour dates, you appear
now late, my handsome, washed-up king
a gift from the late night shift.

Just now tired, jaded
and a sight in the darkness, asking
for a kiss, that I must give lest
we miss the bliss that pleases
to the tune you bring for me
in which to sing.

Your beauty...prying, silent and
unseen to the waking eye arches my
sleepy sigh like a melodramatic spy...
gushing smiles, surprise and all things
nice to bug open a rushed sweet hug.

I am torn between loving or snoring,
sinking or embracing where
possibilities abound like a comet,
poised for a rocket on the majestic,
soar of your brash romantic roar
somewhere in my lovelorn stash.

I've enjoyed the re-invention of my writing voice on this blog, after a long break in creative writing. I wrote heaps in my teens and early twenties, then I became a fashion/celebrity journalist and later stopped writing creatively for about 5 years. Working as a journalist, I wrote no poetry. Yet for me, poetry shapes the essence of everything
I also had poems published in the small poetry presses in England before I had anything published anywhere at all.

But here on this blog, just having fun experimenting with my voice, I forgot for awhile the agents & publishers. Recently, I discovered a flair for comedy-writing. And I also love my children's stories. In fact, this blog has proved a good experiment for me.

But I must get back to the agents and publishers. I must, just must endure that gruelling task. I promise to keep you all updated if good news comes around.

Next week, I'll be back to sketching comedy and perhaps even trying out a play excerpt on this blog. This is the first poem I wrote when I returned to creative writing recently. Poetry is like my shadow. I take it for granted when it's there but miss its elongated whims when it's not around. This short simple poem - which was my first disconcerted effort - has already appeared in 2 websites online in America & India.

I must say I feel a bit wimpish as the rest of you write fabulous poetry.



When You Come To Me

by Susan Abraham

In tossed-up dreams, like a whirlpool
cascading up a sunlit storm,
your soft skin stored in a dusty calm
and from when
the loving hour dates, you appear
now late, my handsome, washed-up king
a gift from the late night shift.

Just now tired, jaded
and a sight in the darkness, asking
for a kiss, that I must give lest
we miss the bliss that pleases
to the tune you bring for me
in which to sing.

Your beauty...prying, silent and
unseen to the waking eye arches my
sleepy sigh like a melodramatic spy...
gushing smiles, surprise and all things
nice to bug open a rushed sweet hug.

I am torn between loving or snoring,
sinking or embracing where
possibilities abound like a comet,
poised for a rocket on the majestic,
soar of your brash romantic roar
somewhere in my lovelorn stash.

I've enjoyed the re-invention of my writing voice on this blog, after a long break in creative writing. I wrote heaps in my teens and early twenties, then I became a fashion/celebrity journalist and later stopped writing creatively for about 5 years. Working as a journalist, I wrote no poetry. Yet for me, poetry shapes the essence of everything
I also had poems published in the small poetry presses in England before I had anything published anywhere at all.

But here on this blog, just having fun experimenting with my voice, I forgot for awhile the agents & publishers. Recently, I discovered a flair for comedy-writing. And I also love my children's stories. In fact, this blog has proved a good experiment for me.

But I must get back to the agents and publishers. I must, just must endure that gruelling task. I promise to keep you all updated if good news comes around.

Next week, I'll be back to sketching comedy and perhaps even trying out a play excerpt on this blog. This is the first poem I wrote when I returned to creative writing recently. Poetry is like my shadow. I take it for granted when it's there but miss its elongated whims when it's not around. This short simple poem - which was my first disconcerted effort - has already appeared in 2 websites online in America & India.

I must say I feel a bit wimpish as the rest of you write fabulous poetry.



When You Come To Me

by Susan Abraham

In tossed-up dreams, like a whirlpool
cascading up a sunlit storm,
your soft skin stored in a dusty calm
and from when
the loving hour dates, you appear
now late, my handsome, washed-up king
a gift from the late night shift.

Just now tired, jaded
and a sight in the darkness, asking
for a kiss, that I must give lest
we miss the bliss that pleases
to the tune you bring for me
in which to sing.

Your beauty...prying, silent and
unseen to the waking eye arches my
sleepy sigh like a melodramatic spy...
gushing smiles, surprise and all things
nice to bug open a rushed sweet hug.

I am torn between loving or snoring,
sinking or embracing where
possibilities abound like a comet,
poised for a rocket on the majestic,
soar of your brash romantic roar
somewhere in my lovelorn stash.

Think of Me

by Susan Abraham

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when the mist clouds your window-pane and raindrops beat fast on its sill.

Think of me when you see a lost leaf waft past the tired memory.

I sit in the room on a tattered sofa with you hiding close to a brocade curtain or two. I'll be reading a forgotten book that takes me back to a childish escapade. I'll sip tea while Callas sings and a wall painting of old dutchmen with their cards and merry gin, swing. And all from a torn door leak that brings about the runaway wind.

I'll hear the storm and catch my heart from where the pain still lingers with you apart. I'll close my eyes to a poem and float on a Carly Simon song that stretches all so long.

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when lightning splinters your memory with the dazzling shard of a remembrance and then once again, so tearfully and so suddenly gone.

Think of Me

by Susan Abraham

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when the mist clouds your window-pane and raindrops beat fast on its sill.

Think of me when you see a lost leaf waft past the tired memory.

I sit in the room on a tattered sofa with you hiding close to a brocade curtain or two. I'll be reading a forgotten book that takes me back to a childish escapade. I'll sip tea while Callas sings and a wall painting of old dutchmen with their cards and merry gin, swing. And all from a torn door leak that brings about the runaway wind.

I'll hear the storm and catch my heart from where the pain still lingers with you apart. I'll close my eyes to a poem and float on a Carly Simon song that stretches all so long.

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when lightning splinters your memory with the dazzling shard of a remembrance and then once again, so tearfully and so suddenly gone.

Think of Me

by Susan Abraham

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when the mist clouds your window-pane and raindrops beat fast on its sill.

Think of me when you see a lost leaf waft past the tired memory.

I sit in the room on a tattered sofa with you hiding close to a brocade curtain or two. I'll be reading a forgotten book that takes me back to a childish escapade. I'll sip tea while Callas sings and a wall painting of old dutchmen with their cards and merry gin, swing. And all from a torn door leak that brings about the runaway wind.

I'll hear the storm and catch my heart from where the pain still lingers with you apart. I'll close my eyes to a poem and float on a Carly Simon song that stretches all so long.

Think of me sometimes on a cold and rainy afternoon when lightning splinters your memory with the dazzling shard of a remembrance and then once again, so tearfully and so suddenly gone.

Fiction (Wrote it in London - but, of course...)

In The Blue

by Susan Abraham

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

Fiction (Wrote it in London - but, of course...)

In The Blue

by Susan Abraham

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

Fiction (Wrote it in London - but, of course...)

In The Blue

by Susan Abraham

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

When I Spied The Autumn

I'm missing and craving the autumn. I've tasted it 8 times in a row, not counting the other travel times while still in Malaysia. 5 straight autumns at the moment, in Melbourne, Australia and 3 in London. I hope to be back in Europe next month finally.

Though my favourite time in London is always a January dusk when on returning from the theatre, the films or a glass of wine, you walk along the pavements, feeling all's well with the world.

You catch your friends, wave goodbye, say hello...and the cold air brushes engagingly against your cheeks and the night lights twinkle just for you... the newspaper vendor's closing up and people everywhere are laughing and smiling.

Then my palms neatly snuggled in leather gloves and tucked into coat pockets, I too, stroll along onward, wanting to laugh and sing...almost wanting to dance.

I'll be back to the funnies in a day or 2. I lost the rhythm & flow of comedy after my internet connection broke down. I lost the inspiration for Love Potion No.2 completely. Now I have to get it back.

These are scrapes of a journal I wrote in London last year when the first signs of autumn arrived. Here I share it with you all.



Yesterday, I Spied On The Autumn

by Susan Abraham

It was evening time and just gone six. On slipping out of a cafe that spilt onto Cromwell Road, I drew my cardigan closer to me. It heralded a vain attempt to scare away the odd shiver. Not convinced by the subtle sun rays on its last leg of a doubtful summer this rainy September, I always carried a sweater.

Now on seeing it had vanished, I searched in vain for my glorious summer light. For months, it had thrilled my dusks like the glimmer of festive bulbs.

Instead, it lay burrowed deep in the ocean bed of a sunset bedroom. Tearful and alone, it engaged in its swift bag-pack to flee the European continent like a race car. Hide and Run. Hide and Run. Such has always been the style of a farewell season.

The playful darkness knowing and impish, had already slipped its welcome onto me like a cold flapping hat. Did I want to cover my eyes and feel myself stumble in the dark? Just in case, you see... It wasn't very kind at all. It had sprung from behind and shouted boo.

And it was then for the first time this month that I glimpsed the owner of this new tip-toeing shadow. The mistress of the coming season, the autumn herself rustled up her skirts...sending up a flurry of blowsy threads in russets and reds...grapes, oranges and browns. All around me, a shower of leaves wore wings, blew and danced, and fell in circles like fairy rings.

Along the way, they paused to give my hair and shoulders a tender brush.

"Come and play," , they whispered in my ear like the whistle of a chilly wind. "We carry on our backs...ice and not fire. Ice to splice and prise...ice like dice...and ice so nice..."

I felt like a solitary bride soaking up the confetti.
True to their words, the temperature sunk and I froze slightly.

Then I saw the autumn poised and as regal as any madam could be, stand outside London's gate with her oversized luggage, biding her time to ring the doorbell. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting.

Perhaps she would go away again...give the sulky sun its chance to sing Auld Lang Syne and return tomorrow. Next week, she'd make sure she got all the warmest blankets out, turned up the heaters, and poured us each a generous glass of port. For now, she could be patient. And so I spied and spied.

When I Spied The Autumn

I'm missing and craving the autumn. I've tasted it 8 times in a row, not counting the other travel times while still in Malaysia. 5 straight autumns at the moment, in Melbourne, Australia and 3 in London. I hope to be back in Europe next month finally.

Though my favourite time in London is always a January dusk when on returning from the theatre, the films or a glass of wine, you walk along the pavements, feeling all's well with the world.

You catch your friends, wave goodbye, say hello...and the cold air brushes engagingly against your cheeks and the night lights twinkle just for you... the newspaper vendor's closing up and people everywhere are laughing and smiling.

Then my palms neatly snuggled in leather gloves and tucked into coat pockets, I too, stroll along onward, wanting to laugh and sing...almost wanting to dance.

I'll be back to the funnies in a day or 2. I lost the rhythm & flow of comedy after my internet connection broke down. I lost the inspiration for Love Potion No.2 completely. Now I have to get it back.

These are scrapes of a journal I wrote in London last year when the first signs of autumn arrived. Here I share it with you all.



Yesterday, I Spied On The Autumn

by Susan Abraham

It was evening time and just gone six. On slipping out of a cafe that spilt onto Cromwell Road, I drew my cardigan closer to me. It heralded a vain attempt to scare away the odd shiver. Not convinced by the subtle sun rays on its last leg of a doubtful summer this rainy September, I always carried a sweater.

Now on seeing it had vanished, I searched in vain for my glorious summer light. For months, it had thrilled my dusks like the glimmer of festive bulbs.

Instead, it lay burrowed deep in the ocean bed of a sunset bedroom. Tearful and alone, it engaged in its swift bag-pack to flee the European continent like a race car. Hide and Run. Hide and Run. Such has always been the style of a farewell season.

The playful darkness knowing and impish, had already slipped its welcome onto me like a cold flapping hat. Did I want to cover my eyes and feel myself stumble in the dark? Just in case, you see... It wasn't very kind at all. It had sprung from behind and shouted boo.

And it was then for the first time this month that I glimpsed the owner of this new tip-toeing shadow. The mistress of the coming season, the autumn herself rustled up her skirts...sending up a flurry of blowsy threads in russets and reds...grapes, oranges and browns. All around me, a shower of leaves wore wings, blew and danced, and fell in circles like fairy rings.

Along the way, they paused to give my hair and shoulders a tender brush.

"Come and play," , they whispered in my ear like the whistle of a chilly wind. "We carry on our backs...ice and not fire. Ice to splice and prise...ice like dice...and ice so nice..."

I felt like a solitary bride soaking up the confetti.
True to their words, the temperature sunk and I froze slightly.

Then I saw the autumn poised and as regal as any madam could be, stand outside London's gate with her oversized luggage, biding her time to ring the doorbell. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting.

Perhaps she would go away again...give the sulky sun its chance to sing Auld Lang Syne and return tomorrow. Next week, she'd make sure she got all the warmest blankets out, turned up the heaters, and poured us each a generous glass of port. For now, she could be patient. And so I spied and spied.

When I Spied The Autumn

I'm missing and craving the autumn. I've tasted it 8 times in a row, not counting the other travel times while still in Malaysia. 5 straight autumns at the moment, in Melbourne, Australia and 3 in London. I hope to be back in Europe next month finally.

Though my favourite time in London is always a January dusk when on returning from the theatre, the films or a glass of wine, you walk along the pavements, feeling all's well with the world.

You catch your friends, wave goodbye, say hello...and the cold air brushes engagingly against your cheeks and the night lights twinkle just for you... the newspaper vendor's closing up and people everywhere are laughing and smiling.

Then my palms neatly snuggled in leather gloves and tucked into coat pockets, I too, stroll along onward, wanting to laugh and sing...almost wanting to dance.

I'll be back to the funnies in a day or 2. I lost the rhythm & flow of comedy after my internet connection broke down. I lost the inspiration for Love Potion No.2 completely. Now I have to get it back.

These are scrapes of a journal I wrote in London last year when the first signs of autumn arrived. Here I share it with you all.



Yesterday, I Spied On The Autumn

by Susan Abraham

It was evening time and just gone six. On slipping out of a cafe that spilt onto Cromwell Road, I drew my cardigan closer to me. It heralded a vain attempt to scare away the odd shiver. Not convinced by the subtle sun rays on its last leg of a doubtful summer this rainy September, I always carried a sweater.

Now on seeing it had vanished, I searched in vain for my glorious summer light. For months, it had thrilled my dusks like the glimmer of festive bulbs.

Instead, it lay burrowed deep in the ocean bed of a sunset bedroom. Tearful and alone, it engaged in its swift bag-pack to flee the European continent like a race car. Hide and Run. Hide and Run. Such has always been the style of a farewell season.

The playful darkness knowing and impish, had already slipped its welcome onto me like a cold flapping hat. Did I want to cover my eyes and feel myself stumble in the dark? Just in case, you see... It wasn't very kind at all. It had sprung from behind and shouted boo.

And it was then for the first time this month that I glimpsed the owner of this new tip-toeing shadow. The mistress of the coming season, the autumn herself rustled up her skirts...sending up a flurry of blowsy threads in russets and reds...grapes, oranges and browns. All around me, a shower of leaves wore wings, blew and danced, and fell in circles like fairy rings.

Along the way, they paused to give my hair and shoulders a tender brush.

"Come and play," , they whispered in my ear like the whistle of a chilly wind. "We carry on our backs...ice and not fire. Ice to splice and prise...ice like dice...and ice so nice..."

I felt like a solitary bride soaking up the confetti.
True to their words, the temperature sunk and I froze slightly.

Then I saw the autumn poised and as regal as any madam could be, stand outside London's gate with her oversized luggage, biding her time to ring the doorbell. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting.

Perhaps she would go away again...give the sulky sun its chance to sing Auld Lang Syne and return tomorrow. Next week, she'd make sure she got all the warmest blankets out, turned up the heaters, and poured us each a generous glass of port. For now, she could be patient. And so I spied and spied.