I left Thursday night to go cross-country skiing in the mountains of Central Norway, along the Peer Gynt Trail, following in the footsteps of Scott, who trained at Fefor Hotel for his polar expedition (it is near enough the Arctic circle to afford the requisite extreme conditions). Returning this morning on the 7.40 flight from Oslo (seated near Jeremy Clarkson, thereby putting me in a bind - should I not want the plane to crash?) I found that the Irish government farcical, Alan Johnson cuckolded and replaced by Ed Balls (the phallic puns just roll off the tip of the uhm tongue), and Mr Cameron mired in his own Watergate scandal of sorts (his spokesman resigning, he partying with Murdoch), Obama back up in the polls, and Palin down. Gosh.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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