sharing small stories
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
The End Of March ‘It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of