It’s that time of year again. The mysterious white Giffords Circus big top is making its way from town to town, flanked by glossy maroon liveried wagons. In a matter of hours, a field, a park or a village green is transformed into something altogether more magical, a secret world of tricks and adventure, of music, laughter and colour.
The Trees ‘The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief.Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still
I’ve read several novels over the last couple of months: The Essex Serpent, The Paying Guests and Fiona Mozley’s darkly brilliant and haunting Elmet. By accident, rather than by design, I’m now conccurently reading books by two of my favouirte authors on the theme of walking: Wanderlust by Rebecca Solnit and The Old Ways by Robert
Spring ‘To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It