a poem for January

New Year on Dartmoor

‘This is newness : every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint’s falsetto. Only you
Don’t know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There’s no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.’

-Sylvia Plath

back for a new year

Nothing says fresh start like a blanket of untrodden snow. It’s so rare for us to have a proper snowfall, and yet December brought two, each time transforming the local landscape into a Narnian wonderland. After two days of sledging, snowballs and angel-making with the children, on the third day they returned to school and

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the year in books December :: pyjamas and a book

{this post contains affiliate links and gifted items} On Christmas Eve, each of my boys is each given a single present to open in front of a roaring fire. Inside is a new pair of pyjamas, to cuddle up in on the most exciting night of the year, ready to tiptoe downstairs on Christmas morning, and a

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a poem for December

‘It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, — Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the fence, It wraps it, rail by rail, Till it is lost

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