Yesterday, I sat outside sun-bathing and watched the very first swallows of the season sitting on the phone wires apparently tidying themselves up after their long journey.
Today the wind is howling, and the sight of the the billowing tree tops through the window is enough to make any one feel sea-sick. Perhaps the oak tree in the photo will be pleased to be wrapped up warm in its furry green coat.
I’m pretty sure I’ve read that Wordsworth wrote his poems while out walking, and that the rhythm of his strides helped him work out the metre. (Pause here for a link to Lynn Peters’ Why Dorothy Wordsworth is not as famous as her brother.)
I try and walk every day, even if it’s only down to the post office to check the mail box. I walk in the hope that I’ll get ideas to write about; I walk to iron out the pieces I am working on; and I walk for exercise. Yesterday was the first reasonable day for a while when I was free to take time for a longer walk, so I went round the reservoir.
I didn’t find any inspiration for new poems; I did, however, find a whole anthology of old favourites.
Continue reading “anthological exercise”
Bare branches stretch
through tumbling green;
so many kisses
beyond my reach.
One problem with trying to find illustrations for some of the pieces I post here is that I’m between cameras and the phone isn’t as adaptable as I’d like it to be, so the photos – particularly the ones that should be close ups – are fairly hit and miss.
These wonderfully clam-like toadstools would probably have made a better photo to go with the smallest room in all the world:
Continue reading “images: both photographic and poetic”
A gust of wind tears
yellow birds and russet butterflies
from autumn trees
or, possibly:
A gust of wind
tears all the yellow birds
and russet butterflies of autumn
from their treetop perches
don't confuse the narrator 