Yesterday I was too busy and preoccupied to post anything. Today I have:
Made a hedgehog house and café, away from the fence. The dogs scream at the poor thing as it tries to have a quiet meal under the plum tree.
Watched a young deer leaping through the meadow, the heron circling looking for water.
Written a letter to the tax people.
Walked the dogs and preempted a violent meeting with Imelda (cat) twice.
Made a hospital appointment.
Watered all the things in pots with water from the well.
Made a minestrone and the dogs’ dinner.
Written a few poems.
Revised a bit more of a manuscript.
Watched in admiration the changing light in this warm autumnal breeze.
Here, for those who would like to use it, is a selection of words that I didn’t post yesterday. Quite a good one, I think.
There are strange things hiding in these strings of random words, the limping laugh and untidy cry, a venomous cure, clam oil, ruddy muscle (or mussel) and the insistence on milk. And there are whole tragedies, the irate uncle with a secret, who imbibes until his state reaches alert, and the attractive skier now a grey stiff. Ultra regret.
This is what I got, a cadralor, I think. I chose this Chagall because it’s bright and full of music and movement, but also ambiguity.
We are a barbarous race,
build bonfires of all that is good
and scrape up scraps of tawdry leavings,
gewgaws and glitz, to venerate.
The peace breaks, a muttering in the air.
Did the wind swing the bell,
or does it toll in alarm at the change,
a gale gusting from the ocean?
Bird-talk, a busy painting,
a concert hall’s swollen sound,
laughter that dive-dips, the colour of jay’s wings,
the rhythm section of the chiff chaffs.
Speaking of God, I see him striding, the curé,
as if he still evokes fear,
seeing only the ghosts of the long-dead,
who would have bowed at his passing.
There is something grandiose
in snow-capped mountains,
and secrets shared with a cat, a baby,
someone who will never tell.