The stopping was for all sorts of reasons; the re-starting is for one: to do something different.
Instead of a confessional, from now on you get a daily picture and a poem, both by me. Same yacht, different tack.
Babysitting in SchaerbeekFrom deep in the ganglia
rises to the skin a carer
chatting animated English
attempting broken infant German.
Then I'm left to Simon Armitage,
the television that two remotes fail,
the sewing that I'll never do;
der private modus browsing that I will.
The clean, twist-and-clipped tidy
silence of grateful absence.
Loud neighbourhood ghosts pass
in boots and exclamation.
A round baby raises a tower of lights.
In darkness I stopper his cries
with a luminous dummy
and he goes back down, down, down.
Drooping now over pages,
dreaming in Yorkshire dialect,
I click up, awake,
with and like the homecoming latch.