The notes I made after my morning swim today were of even more than usual banality, with my thoughts concentrating on the fact that the refill in my collapsable pen seemed disinclined to stay in place!  
     I commented on the fact that the swim app on my phone, which is linked to my smart watch, has decided recently to let me know how far I have swum on a daily, aggregated basis.  I noted how lucky I was to have a whole lane to myself when the rest of the swimming pool was a writhing, pullulating mass of bodies: I felt like a member of the IOC making my unfettered way to the London Olympics able to ignore the surrounding stationary traffic!
     While writing this rubbish I was, as is my want, sitting in the full sunshine.  Nothing in this country so clearly shows that you are not native than sitting in the sun when not actually sunbathing by the beach - and even then it is customary to lurk under a parasol!
     Today, like lots of near yesterdays, it has been very hot and I (remembering my First Aid in English) was perspiring freely.  It was at this point that I drew my index finger's crooked sweep and flung the accumulated sweat (sorry, perspiration: horses sweat; men perspire; women glow) on to the ground.  I hasten to add that I was sitting outside (remember the sun?) and alone, so offended nobody.
     I did notice the pattern that the perspiration made and that was the start of rather more productive notes and the genesis of the following poem.

This short poem is an account of a fairly ordinary incident, and it starts in a fairly neutral descriptive way.  From the third line of the poem and the mention of constellations, it attempts to progress into something which links to concepts of time and space.  The last verse with the combination of words like gone, nothing left and suggest, give a fairly negative feel to the poem and perhaps points towards a final eschatological ending.

Heat

An index finger’s crooked sweep

across sweat-wetted forehead

scooping drops to fling some

crazy constellations on the hot cement.

Where, even as you try

to find familiarity in the

momentary, aleatory

(so much could be just like The Plough)

systems boil away

into indifferent space.

Even the supernovae

of something more

than shallow blots,

fail to survive

beyond a blink.

And then they’re gone.

With nothing left

to suggest

that they were
ever there.