A new poem

A POET, UNSEEN

I wonder if Stephen,
puzzled beyond endearment
that his river ran
where his words never would
or could
and,
enduring,
breaking lines in unseemly places
where the paper ran out,
he saw things in coffins that
never would or should be
seen.

John Bailey,

Somerset, August 2008

Giggling snowcaps

Sunday August 24, 2008

There’s little or no excitement to be had of the middle day of a three-day Bank Holiday weekend.  Closest we came to excitement was when we dashed out in a great rush to bring in a lineful of washing as it came on to rain.  Closest we came to hilarity was when Dolly decided she must, really must go out in the face of a sheeting squall of rain, stopped in horror when the first drops hit, and dashed back before you could say ’silly old cat’.

Hey ho.  Perhaps the pace will pick up tomorrow.  If not, I have an itchy feeling about Tuesday, the first day back to work for those who indulge in such an uncomfortable occupation.  Things may happen on Tuesday.

Yesterday’s extended pop concert continued rattling in my mind but has now turned back to the classics where I’m more at ease.  Before I leave it, though, of the three concerts I youtub-ed in yesterday’s entry, I attended the David Bowie Serious Moonlight  in London, and a one-off Kinks concert in Brighton.  Sadly, I was on the wrong continent for the Simon and Garfunkle show.

And, returning to more familiar ground, I watched the little noddy-heads of Charlie, our Cyclamen, dancing in the breeze this afternoon.  Daffodils may dance in April but in August you can’t beat the giggling snowcaps of hardy cyclamen.

Charlie, our cyclamen