sharing small stories
‘Green was the silence, wet was the light the month of June trembled like a butterfly and in the south dominion, from the sea and the stones, Matilde, you traversed the midday. You were loaded with ferrous flowers, seaweeds that the south wind torments and forgets, still white, shrivelled by the devouring salt, your hands
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