village life – Page 20 – don't confuse the narrator

home thoughts

I’ve been in the south of Spain for a couple of days, and have been talking to other writers down here.

It’s natural to want to put other people into some kind of context, so I wasn’t surprised when, shortly after I met her, one woman asked me “Where is home?”

Without much thought, I answered, “Spain.”

Then that began to rankle. It simply didn’t feel like the right answer.

Home. It’s not simply where you live, is it? It has to do with family and friends and a sense of belonging.
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first day of autumn

I really intended to post this yesterday – on the last day of summer. It’s a glass half-full or half-empty thing.

We’re always so keen to be moving on to new beginnings, I though it might be good to dawdle a bit, like the river is doing at the moment.

Unlike the year we moved here, when I heard the water through the open windows on the first night and thought it was pouring with rain, this year the river is very low and practically silent.

So, however inconvenient the heavy rain is, I’ll have to hope for a wet winter. Or a very cold one, so there’s plenty of snow to thaw and fill the rivers next spring. (See what I mean about always wanting new beginnings?)
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21st-century pugilist

Albert Stanley (Stan) Roberts; all-in wrestler

You what? He spits.
His knuckles clench, thumbs
tuck to fists and elbows flex;
he squares up, rises to his toes,
knees bent, ready to dance, then
stalls.
Hands dip to hitch
his slipping jeans.

The photo was kindly provided by a friend, nephew of Stan Roberts, when I said I didn’t have any ideas about what to post to the blog.

I think the intention was to inspire me to write a new poem. Instead, I thought it made an interesting contrast to the modern wannabe fighter in this piece written a couple of years ago, inspired by a lad in the village.

(And, yes, despite knowing very little about fighting of any kind, I do know that wrestlers and boxers are not the same.)

time passes

2:00 am
Crickets creak a tripwire grid
across the garden.

4:00 am
The hoot of an owl glides like a shadow
from the heart of the tallest pine.

5:30 am
The rooster’s crowing wakens the hens
who peck and pick, unravelling
the fraying edges of the night.

6:00 am
Now, all the valley dogs are worrying
at the straggling ends of dark; they tug
and bark and run with them towards the morning.

(A draft – or perhaps just notes for a poem – which is very much a variation on a theme. I posted an earlier interpretation almost exactly two years ago as Alarm)

Incidentally, trying to find out what type of owl I was writing about, I found the Owl Pages site with its extensive selection of recordings. And having cross-referenced with the Iberia Nature site, I think I must be thinking of a tawny owl.

one man and his goats

There were two dogs with the man: one, a rangy young mastiff type who seemed to do nothing but make sure the cars didn’t get too near, and the other, an unattractive, but very efficient, blue-grey border collie.

The goats themselves were rather fine examples of the sort of animal I’d expect to be at the head of the ranks of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. The mastiff explains why I didn’t take a close-up.