A Rare Day

Home for a flying visit,

I spent a rare day with my mother.

We passed a pleasant morning

At a concert,

Listening to Brahms.

Not a coffee drinker,

at intermission I had a cup,

Strong and dark,

Because that was all they had.

We meandered, talking,

Until my mother suggested lunch.

"Here's a good place", she said ... "Nicolson's"

So we entered, and walked upstairs.

And because this was Edinburgh,

A city of magic, darkness and light,

And this was August, and the Festival,

There was J.K. Rowling,

In her favorite corner table,

With a friend.

We were seated close by.

"Do you know who's next to us?" I hissed, sotto voce.

They talked about the first movie;

How it would change her life.

Later, we wandered the city,

Ending up at the art gallery of a friend.

But instead of looking at her work,

I was in the bathroom,

Examining the scimitar of stained glass

Expanding in my peripheral vision

Feel nauseous, pressure but no pain,

And somehow strangely excited:

I recognized this from reading Oliver Sacks ...

My first migraine.

As though a rainbow search light

Had left an afterimage,

Bright and beautiful and terrifying.

Not wanting to ride the bus home,

We walked, on this rare day,

Through a grey mist, real or not I can't say,

Until, hours later, it was gone.