The most that can be said of the recent weather is that it has been very English. Glorious sunshine and torrential rain.
Yesterday’s mix of seasons brought a stunning double rainbow over the back garden. The photo shows only one of the bows and doesn’t do that justice, I’m afraid.
It’s Sunday evening and I still haven’t posted anything on the blog this weekend. I’ve been out and walked and taken pictures – it was the most glorious morning here today – but I haven’t written anything. There are too many impossible tasks to deal with at the moment and the words seem to have slipped through the cracks.
So, with impossible tasks in mind, I thought of squaring the circle, and from there it was a short jump to this photo:
Elliptical Thoughts
The lives of parallel lines are uneventful:
no sudden twists or unexpected turns disturb
their single track monotony. And yet they dream
of non-Euclidean space where rules are bent
and of that infinite horizon where, at last, they’ll coincide.Concentric circles, on the other hand, have
no such hyperbolic hope. They know their limitations.
Destined to be solitary cranks, they circumlocate,
make roundabout excuses and observe their fellows
from a distance. They never socialise.
L’Escala: thunder blue,
the Mediterranean
beat her lace-frilled cuffs against
the coast’s ridged washboard rocks
while the cobla band played on
in brassy silence.
You’ll find a couple of other poetry fragments from my recent trip to Catalonia if you click here.
Spring pours sunshine
through the woods to dapple
on my polished shoes.I hear birdsong echo
children’s laughter; green
is a scent, a taste
fresh on my tongue.
(The opening lines of an old poem.)
La tramuntana
turns the beach
vertical, lifting it
towards a cleanswept blue
where tiptilting gulls
fly backwards.
It’s not quite the right photo, of course, but the tramontane wind blew so hard for four of the five days of my recent trip that I couldn’t see or think or focus. I could hardly stand upright most of the time, so was pleased to find even a few lines of poetry, without worrying about whether I had appropriate pictures to use alongside.
A painter’s light, you said,
but I saw nothing,
eyes scrunched against
drifting sand and tufts
of cottonwood.
don't confuse the narrator 