First a heatwave then some cooling down and a poem of course.
Got so tetchy had to stop checking into facebook, if only to avoid the sin of envy. So many younger people some of whom I barely know prancing about all over the world and/or in Edinburgh, or at poetry festivals or maybe just having a knees up in Margate!
Having said that two of my grandchildren are currently in Japan. One working there for a year and the other on holiday.
Not sure envy is a sin but vaguely remember it might be. My old Granny was a Methodist, my ex-husband a Catholic and I went to Sunday school when I was a child, so such things do hover about in one’s mind.
But when the sun is shining joy can be found closer to home.
Seeing this bird of prey landing nearby on the Marina, maybe waiting to join in Joshie’s (eldest grandson’s) 24th birthday celebrations at Casa Brasil. They do a super duper buffet and wonderful barbie.
Josh was 7 when he helped paint this mural with his cousins in our beach hut in Hove. Recently he secured a big promotion in the pharmacy department of a hospital in Eastbourne. Congratulations Joshie!
When it was too hot jumped into the sea at Saltdean and later met a beachcomber. I hadn’t seen one since I wrote the following poem ten years ago.
Where a solitary seagull flew
hopeful of an unexpected catch,
an old man moved along
the deserted seashore
as if to ward off new invaders.
He kept his gaze low,
pausing then pouncing,
hands sifting piles of slippery pebbles,
“Makes a good walk” he called,
digging to retrieve his bounty
two battered 20p coins.
he called. I nodded,
so with one hand cupped
to the side of his mouth,
warding of competition
from the roar os the wind
on the incoming tide,
he launched into a sonnet.
His words swooped, soared,
glided past present reality
and far out to sea.
I clapped respectfully
as he continued to work the beach
as any showman might,
reaping his due rewards for such
a powerful performance.
from my collection ‘Don’t Throw Away the Daisies’
Last week read two new poems and one poem from ‘The Puppeteer’s Daughter’ at The Poetry School in London compered by Paul Crane. There were some brilliant poets and what a lively lot they are on a Thursday afternoon.