By way of a total interior contrast, I'm reading 'Just Kids' by Patti Smith. So as well as trudging over the creaking stuff in -6 degrees C this morning, I've been in the Chelsea Hotel, watching the young Patti Smith loitering in the foyer holding a stuffed crow, when in comes Salvador Dali, in a red-lined black cape. He stops, stares, then pads over to Patti. He remarks, "You are a crow, a gothic crow", and walks out again...
A poem called Snow, in anticipation of next month. 'Snow'is included in 'The Treeless Region', published this year from Ravenglass Poetry Press.
Snow
Snow fallen, frozen, melted, fallen. Snow
laid up to the dykes like plumped-up pillows
at first light. Each fencepost steeples
a white tower, while in the unclaimed stretches
in between, some sheep wool snagged on barbed wire
is hoar frosted like moss.
laid up to the dykes like plumped-up pillows
at first light. Each fencepost steeples
a white tower, while in the unclaimed stretches
in between, some sheep wool snagged on barbed wire
is hoar frosted like moss.
Snow fallen, frozen, melted, fallen. Snow
in the wide field where moss pawed out by sheep
is hoar frosted like wool. Deep prints say
the fox travelled the sheep-track last night.
This morning woodpigeons coo from the white wood.
The lane’s impassable. It’s Christmas Day.
in the wide field where moss pawed out by sheep
is hoar frosted like wool. Deep prints say
the fox travelled the sheep-track last night.
This morning woodpigeons coo from the white wood.
The lane’s impassable. It’s Christmas Day.
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