My Tenant

Dear Reader,

I wonder if any of you are poor sleepers? I can't remember a time when I really slept well without any help from some sort of sleeping draught.  To get through the many wakeful hours of the night I make up stories and compose poems in my head. The one you will see today is about an aunt, Aunty Anne,  I made her up and she comforts me with her wise words and often sends me to sleep. As Shakespeare said in The Tempest :...."we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is
rounded with a sleep.'

My Tenant

Aunty Anne
lives in my head
sits in a comfortable
velvet armchair

she is a wise woman
plump with a pretty face
wears a white lacy blouse
a long patchwork skirt
has her hair in a bun

she smells of lavender water,
face powder and barley sugars
and she gives me
good advice,

away with miserable
thoughts at night,
she says, think
of the sunshine,
the sea, characters you love in books,

then she puts
her arms around me
kisses my cheek,
murmurs she loves me
and all will be well

and it is,
I sleep.

                                                                             *

From Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, in Somerset, January 26th, 1798

'Walked upon the hill-tops; followed the sheep tracks till we overlooked the large coombe.  Sat in the sunshine.  The distant sheep-bells, the sound of the stream, the woodman winding along the half-marked road with his laden pony; locks of wool still spangled with the dew-drops; the blue-grey sea, shaded with immense masses of cloud, not streaked; the sheep glittering in the sunshine.'

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Sylvester, 1948

Dear Reader,

Francis loved going to see Sylvester when he was a little boy. I have written today's poem about this adventure and hope you like the idea of his jaunt to the cinema, by himself, as much as I do.


 Sylvester, 1948

The young boy, eight or thereabouts,
trots down the street
leaves Marble Arch behind him,
and heads for Victoria Station
two miles away.

He has a sixpenny piece
in his pocket to pay
for his weekly visit
to the Regal Picture House.

Sylvester, the cartoon cat
would be playing
and the boy loved Sylvester.

He stretches his thin arm up
to reach the counter
"Sylvester, please mister"
he would say and put
down his sixpenny piece.

Two hours later
promising himself he
would return next Sunday,
he trots home, happy.


                                                                                *


                                                        
 

This is a page in Francis Kilvert's diary, January 12th, l873

'When I came out the night was superb. the sky was cloudless, the moon rode high and full in the deep blue vault and the evening star blazed in the west.  The air was filled with the tolling and chiming of bells from St.Paul's and Chippenham old Church....I walked up and down the drive several times before I could make up my mind to leave the wonderful beauty of the night and go indoors.'

From Gilbert White, January 14th, 1776 in Hampshire

'Rugged, Siberian weather.  the narrow lanes are full of snow in some places.... The road-waggons are obliged to stop, and the stage-coaches are much embarassed.  I was obliged to be much abroad on this day, and scarce ever saw its fellow.'

                                                                                *



 With very best wishes, Patricia

Plumage

                                                                                       Birds of Paradise

Dear Reader,

I was watching a documentary on the Birds of Paradise last week and it struck me that the antics  of this species were not unlike the antics of the human male.  So I wrote the following poem and hope you enjoy it, it is supposed to be a bit of fun.

                                                                           *

Everyone I think will have their ideas on the Meghan and Harry saga.  Here is my two penny worth.
Obviously Meghan found it difficult to adapt to the royal regime, as I think anyone would, and I don't blame her for wanting to quit.  But sadly for Harry it is not so easy, trying to be half royal and half not royal simply wouldn't work.  If they don't want to be part of the Royal Family and all that it entails they must give up their royal titles, be financially independent and lead, as much as they could, a normal life.  They are either in or out.

What do you think?  Do let me know.

                                                                             *

Plumage

Deep in the humid forest
smelling strongly of rich earth,
the Bird of Paradise trips
backwards and forwards on a tree branch,
utters loud cries, jumps small jumps,
dances the pas de deux,
fans out his tail feathers
pink, aquamarine, blue and red,
yellow and green,
to entice female birds
to fall in love with him.

And sometimes they do.

The human male
getting ready for a date
might slick back his hair,
smile at himself in the mirror,
put on a bright-coloured shirt
red silk tie, and yellow waistcoat,
pat on scented after-shave,
hum a tune, dance a step or two,
and sally forth,
hoping some female will
fall in love with him.

And sometimes they do.


                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

January weather

                                                                                         Snowdrops

Dear Reader,

I know it is still a bit early for snowdrops but because they are so entrancing, bringing the hope of spring, I long to see one peeping up in the garden.

Although we don't know whose hand it was that carried the first snowdrop bulb to Britain from Europe we do know that they were being cultivated in British gardens in 1597, the same year that Shakespeare bought his largest house in Stratford-upon-Avon.  Snowdrops were once called Candlemass Bells.  As a symbol of purity and light they were brought into churches on 2nd February - Candlemass Day - a Christian feast that commemorates the ritual purification of Mary forty days after the birth of Jesus.  It also marks a more ancient festival celebrating the middle of winter, halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox.

                                                                           *

I went to the panto this week to see Puss in Boots.  But I must say I was very disappointed.  I suppose I wanted to see a traditional panto with Cinderella, or somesuch,  falling in love with the prince and singing a sweet duet at the finale.   And not too much noise.  But this rendering I saw was noisy and I couldn't really follow the story as it was so convoluted, and difficult to hear.  But the audience seemed to love it so it must just be an age thing, and I will probably give it a miss next year.

                                                                             *

January Weather

We know from recorded history,
that in St. Merryn
a hundred years ago,
there blew great winds
and the sea was smoking white.

We know it was warm in Kent,
where the thrushes thought spring
had come, and piped away.
And primroses were a yellow carpet
in North Norfolk,
or so the parson wrote.

We know of cutting winds in Hampshire,
of icicles and frost, and
in Skiddaw on a mild day
a brown spotted butterfly was seen.
We know that hungry church
mice ate bible markers,
hungry people died of cold.

And we know that this dark winter month
had days of snow, that wild clouds
gathered in the sky, unleashing icy rain,
churning up the plough.

And yet, again, we also know
the sun shone in that distant year,
it was warm enough to push through
early snowdrops, and Holy Thorn.
Life was glimpsed, here and there,
all life struggled for its moments.

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia