High Jinks, Hard Memories.
It's just not working is it, it's almost a week since the last post, what sort of journal is that. Yes I know last week was Easter, and we did take a week out from writing groups, but that doesn't include the journal, or does it.
I spotted a trainer, hanging from a tree, near a railway bridge. This seemed a bit odd in this rural outpost, but, as I was returning from Skegness I thought it might be holidaymakers whose party had veered off track.
Today was the hygenist at the dentist, the last visit being three months ago, so no fear of repetition in these words is there. I came back via the country lanes, which gave me a chance to remember a photography trip near Aby.
I spotted a trainer, hanging from a tree, near a railway bridge. This seemed a bit odd in this rural outpost, but, as I was returning from Skegness I thought it might be holidaymakers whose party had veered off track.
Sadness in this morning's reading of WS Graham's letters. Within a week, two of his closest friends had passed away, well before their time. He writes this late in the night, almost in the morning, with the drink well and truly careering within him.
Just as I find the folder with the photo (2007 would you believe it) the wi-fi becomes less wi and more fi, anyway here's a poem of the period:
Hard Going
I write, that’s what I do
I try to write my very best
It’s trite, that’s what I do
And sure as hell
I don’t get so much as rest
I write in the garden
Also afternoons, sat at my desk
It’s light that I am after
But it’s doubt, uncertain
Which takes me to the test
I write for my own consumption
Other readers are not yet blest
Sometimes I write in the evening
Or halfway through the night
In slippers & pyjamas and yep – string vest
