Jasmine

Not summer yet and the jasmine is browning, the white stars dropping. Scent thick in the evening heat, smelling of the end.

Yoga this morning. I don't like to say it, but my strength, my joints, perhaps my organs too, past their prime. Every class is difficult. I dread them, but I must attend at least one torture session every week. If only I could force myself to attend two, each one would not prove so challenging. Or if I practised at home . . . But I would have to be self- disciplined. And my self-discipline has become weak and wobbly like my aging body.