knobs, knockers and bosses

I could just as easily have called this post “door furniture and architectural details”, “wall anchors, pattress plates and more”, “green men and bears” or a dozen other titles, but I’ll admit it: I’m childish enough to have taken pleasure rounding up a selection of local photos that I can post together under the title “knobs, knockers and bosses”.

In fact, as I’ve been researching what this set of photos show, I’ve learned that there are precious few bosses among them. Perhaps we’d better get them out of the way immediately, with this over-sized lego brick that I came across by the race course months ago. I have no idea what it was for, but presumably whatever its purpose, they really didn’t want people to sit on it.
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reductio ad absurdum

The other day, I posted a differently cropped version of the photo above on Instagram with the caption:

Blossom above my head;
clouds in the sky.

Since then, I’ve been niggling and tweaking and wondering whether and how I can turn that into something a little more poetic.
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fill in the details

I wrote yesterday in “monsters and fairies” about stories that parents tell to their children about events that happen in the children’s lives before they are really old enough to form personal memories. Those stories can take on a life of their own and become formative parts of the child’s story.

There are other personal stories that parents tell their children, of course, including ones they recall about their own childhoods. And then there’s a step further back along the chain to the stories that our parents were told about their early childhoods by their own parents.
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all a bit vague, really

It’s been one of those weeks. A week when it’s been impossible to settle to get anything done. What with the state of the States, the continued looming menace of Brexit, and what the New York Times referred to as “England’s spotty lockdown”, the uncertainty seems almost palpable.

Clients are unwilling to make decisions and there’s a general feeling of the world being on pause, waiting for other people to move before we see where the opportunities are and where we should direct our energies.
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the wrong poem

Years ago, I used to participate in an online poetry forum. It was the best thing that could have happened to me at the time, as I learned a huge amount and stopped writing teenage-angst, hearts-and-flowers poetry and started to – occasionally – write something worth writing. Perhaps even, though more rarely, worth reading.

I posted my own poetry, and I learned from the comments and critiques, and the subsequent discussions. When someone misunderstood what I’d intended, or found my word choice or phrasing unsatisfactory, it was always helpful, as it encouraged me to look more closely at what I was trying to do and where I had failed.
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