I was away for a few days in Somerset for a friend's wedding. While there, human life, in all its horror, broke out across the world, oddly clashing with the sunlight and champagne of a rural English marriage. Norway's madness, Chinas' train collision, Amy Winehouse's senseless death, and a serial killer ex-Marine in the US, as well as several other tragedies, alongside the famine in Africa, seemed to render an already-fragile sense of optimism shattered. Yet, here I am, it is Sunday, it is sunny, and I am writing this. The world wobbles on. I will post more on some of this later.
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.
Comments
I was wondering where you were. I hope that you had a pleasant time in Somerset - one of England's prettiest counties. It is true that the excrement has really collided with the turbine during your absence!
Best wishes from Simon