I’ve written a poem, and as that’s something I rarely do, I thought I’d share it here. In the midst of this parched and listless summer, it’s a reminder of the soft, dewy spring.
While I’m here, let me say that everything is good, even if the endless sun has found me impatiently hopping from foot to foot, watching the clouds for rain. We’ve been busy. In the past month we’ve been to Venice (to talk to a man about a wedding), and the Lake District (to eat a 10 course tasting menu of dreams). And in two weeks we’re going to the South of France. It’s been a good summer.
Memories of a Spring
Each week I watch the quiet journey
of spring along the A-roads leading from the
North West to the east East. The furthest east
that you can go. The place where elderflower
grows too fast, blooming and bursting and
heavy with scent, foaming from the side of the road,
always drying up too quick to make cordial.
Next year, next year.
We drive -you drive- the hundreds of miles to take me home,
and it’s always dusk. The groaning, gloaming,
lonely dusk of getting lost and following diversions,
when we find ourselves alone on a country track
with bats flitting up up ahead
and the trees eating down the light like big black holes.
It’s dark when we reach the roundabout 5 minutes from home.
There are deer in the headlights and the hawthorn,
blackthorn, elder, rowan, rape and blowsy pink plum blossoms of spring
are tucked up in the darkness, in the folds of the journey.
In there, out there, all at once
and not at all.