THANKYOU for all your kind comments. I will try and reply personally in the morning. Meanwhile - Sarah - you're on. I will try and jot some more words on paper and would love to write to you. Lizzy D (and anyone who wants to copy this poem) feel free. I am humbled you should want to do so.
As an alternative to this morning's doom and gloom, I found two poems I had completely forgotten about, whilst tidying up a bookcase and hoiking out old books to go to the Fair. I also found a pile of Manx family history notes, so will look at those next week.
I've just taken out the boxes of stock which were in the cupboard under the stairs and they are ready to go into the car now. TBH, I may gird my loins and load the bigger ones tonight, along with the tables and two folding chairs. Then it won't be worrying me overnight. Of course, Lulu managed to get out of where I had her shut away and shot into the cupboard under the stairs, where she promptly hid amongst the cobwebs and mouldy spiders under the bottom shelf, where no-one could reach her. I have done a head count since, and they're all out here and no-one shut in!
ROAD TO BRECON
Pine boughs dangle limply like scarf-ends
Across the muddied verge, where
Bundles of twigs from hedging lie like a bristling eyebrow
Beside the dark maw of the winter ditch.
A narrow carpet-runner of weary green races beside the car,
Punctuated by forgotten cords of logs, shaggy with moss and lichen.
A blade of sunshine highlights dead bracken and
A swaying of bramble boughs dance against
A mausoleum of holly, black as a pirate's beard.
On the hillslope, a thicket of ill-planted ash and birch saplings
Jostle for company amongst a carpet of rotting leaves,
Moss-mounds velvet smooth at their feet.
On the bare hill-top, stooped as a crabbit old man,
Stands a wind-blasted tree, leaning away from the winds.
The sun hangs low and brassy in the fading sky,
As shadows lengthen across the bleached grasses of damp hill pasture,
A densely-hedge lane gouges and field,
And dangles the hillside like a funeral ribbon.
I used to ask Keith to jot things down on the newspaper as I drove along, and had a sudden flash of inspiration. Then I would write these into my Commonplace book when we got home, and sometimes they were made into blank verse. I shall never be able to do that again. Trish thought that poetry had to be de-dem, de-dum de-dum and rhyming. I can remember her handing me back a poem I'd showed her, without a comment. That still hurts. She hadn't done poetry since school and never did any work on technically breaking down or understanding poetry. I did some on my access course, and at the time was really torn between doing Eng. Lit. and Archaeology, but was advised by the English lecturer to do Archaeology as there was SO much reading involved with Eng. Lit, and I had young children. (She had 4 but they were all at Cathedral school and boarding.)
I have pondered about putting this poem on as it looks like currying favour. If you don't like it, just say. It pleases me anyway.