Apparently the summer solstice and the full moon coincide tonight, so here’s a white rose – a rose for summer and white for the moon.
White roses always make me think of this line in Laurie Lee’s Home From Abroad:
The hedges choke with roses fat as cream.
For reasons not relevant here, I have been reading the sonnets of Shakespeare.
Of course, someone who claims an interest in poetry probably shouldn’t need a particular reason to read poetry, but I’m afraid I do find “the sonnets” uphill work – not all sonnets, but Shakespeare’s in particular.
Continue reading “six sonnets”
En route to the station, I pass by these lovely purple flowers:
The plant must be well over six foot in height – the flowers tumble over a fence too high for me to look over – and I think it must be growing in the garden of a pub that has been “under offer” for at least the last six months.
Continue reading “identification and limitation”
Sometimes, there’s an idea that just never gels satisfactorily into a poem and the only thing to do is forget it and move on.
Continue reading “survival”
Wind paunches the belly
of a wifebeater;
blue-black denims drip.
The kitchen drain belches suds
and she ponders ironing
white collars.
Here in the UK, it’s not just an ordinary washing-day Monday, it’s a bank holiday. I don’t know if I’m allowed to call it May Day, or whether I have to use the more diffident Early May bank holiday.
Continue reading “monday”
don't confuse the narrator 