Loss

 Dear reader,

I think this month of May, 2021, has been so depressing.  I could never work out whether it had actually got any hotter or whether it was just cold and damp. It usually was cold and damp. The thermostat in my body doesn't seem to work very well and I often find I am hot when everyone else is cold or visa versa.  So I am constantly putting layers of clothes on or taking them off.  Mostly putting them back on this May.  And I think we all long for a sight of the sun.  Francis and I try to go for a walk every day but I must say I have no enthusiasm for an east wind blowing through me, straight from Siberia. So sometimes we just don't have a walk and end up frustrated having taken no exercise.  Still today the elusive sun is actually shining and we intend to eat outside. Perhaps summer really has come at last.

                                                                                      *

From Samuel Pepys, 1662, May 29th, in Surrey

'With my wife and the two maids and the boy took boat and to Vauxhall, where I had not been a great while.  To the old Spring Garden, and there walked long, and the wenches gathered pinks'.

From William Cowper, 1786, May 29th, Buckinghamshire

'The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dewdrops, and the birds are singing in the apple trees, among the blossoms.  Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his Muse'.

                                                                                      *

Loss

The old woman
totters slowly down the path.
Holding her hand we
go into the field
pick daffodils and buttercups.
Spring is on its way.

Later in her kitchen
she tries to say something, to find words
which seem to flutter away,
escape her, but she manages:
"I don't live
in this house, I live elsewhere."

She lies down on the sofa.
"I like looking at the sky" she murmurs,
and closing her eyes she falls asleep.
I kiss her on her pale, cold cheeks,
and weep.......

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia

At Last

 Dear Reader,

My poem this week is about the topical subject of hugging.  You have probably read lots about tomorrow, Monday, being the day we are all allowed to hug someone and how completely wonderful that will be.  In fact I did an illicit hug with my granddaughter last week, I just couldn't wait any longer. And it was such an intense moment of bliss I will never forget it. I don't know whether you remember my poem about 'a gentleman of the road' who I met when I was working for the Samaritans.  We had chatted for quite some time about his life and when he left I gave him a hug. He hadn't touched another human being for over thirty years, he said, as a tear fell down his cheek.  But I think the hug I gave him cheered him up and helped him on his way.  It was emotional for me too.  

So go out there, my friends, and hug as many people as you can.  I think it is a great deprivation to ask humans not to touch each other. We are social animals and as such need to express ourselves to others in the way of a hug.  Obviously there are some people who do not want to be hugged: well that is their perogative. But for me, hugging is what I like to do, confirming my love for that person in my arms.

Some people find hugging a tree very endearing and satisfying.  So I have put a photograph of someone doing just that.

                                                                                     *

A British firm has become embroiled in an internationsl legal battle over who is entitled to produce Manuka honey.  It is feared that beekeepers from New Zealand want to ensure only honey produced in their country can carry the title.  A single jar of this honey can cost hundreds of pounds depending whether it meets certain criteria.  I buy mine from the Co-op and I think it is about ten pounds a jar.
It is delicious and apparently, in all sorts of ways, very good for you.  So if you feel weak after all the excitement of hugging again, I recommend you buy ajar.

                                                                                      *

At last           (after Covid restrictions were lifted)

the excitement
of hugging someone
after so long
the ecstatic feeling of
somebody much loved in your arms
kissing their cheeks
again and again
holding their hands, holding them close
fingers locking
standing still
breathing their breath
crying with pent up relief
filling that enormous
longing ache
with love and laughter
again

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

The Holiday Cottage

Dear Reader, 

In the six years I have been writing this small blog I have only missed seven Sundays in all that time. But I really hate not writing it and this last Sunday was no exception so I am really sorry if you missed me. On Saturday I had a tooth out and it was all most unpleasant.  It was a back molar and took some time to move. The dentist had to cut three roots and then I had more injections and when I finally came out I was feeling very groggy and ill.  In fact I shan't be going to that dentist again. The attacked gum is healing now but still feels painful.  Anyway, that is the reason I wasn't able to write on Sunday.

                                                                                          

                                                                                      *

From DH Lawrence, 1915, May 15th in Sussex

I find the country very beautiful.  The apple trees are leaning forwards, all white with blossom, towards the green grass.  I watch, in the morning when I wake up, a thrush on the wall outside the window - not a thrush, a blackbird - and he sings, opening his beak.   It is a strange thing to watch his singing, opening his beak and giving out his calls and warblings, then remaining silent.  He looks so remote, so buried in primeval silence, standing there on the wall, and bethinking himself, then opening his beak to make the strange, strong sound.  he seems as if his singing were a sort of talking to himself, or of thinking aloud his strongest thoughts.  I wish I were a blackbird, like him.  I hate men.

 

                                                                                        *

 

The Holiday Cottage

The lone cottage is whitewashed
a small wicker fence
with garden gate
leads to the shore,
to the sea.
Before breakfast I take a cup of tea
on to the sand dunes,
breathe in the salt air,
search the horizon
or watch gannets,
seagulls, terns.
The wind blows softly.

But the cottage is not whitewashed,
does not sit by itself.
And the sea is far off.
This cottage is on an estate,
adjoining houses on either side,
loud music bellows from a window,
cars and trucks fill the drive,
a food store across the road
is the view.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Porridge

 

Dear Reader,

I have decided this week to put the poem first on the blog because the pictures are so pertinent to the poem.

 

Porridge

The kitchen maid
plunges thin white arms
into the heavy cast-iron pot,
scours the glutinous porridge
from its insides.
She imagines her mistress
out in her carriage
on pleasure calls,
wearing lilac silk,
freshwater pearls around her neck,
her hands, idle white, in her lap.
She weeps.

The housewife scours the saucepan,
eases the porridge from its sides,
brushes the sticky mess into the sink.
She images her husband
taking the train, office bound,
making important telephone calls,
lunching with partners Lucy and George
in that Italian bistro, discussing deals,
drinking white wine, laughing, living.
She weeps.

                                                                                    *

Joe Shute in the Daily Telegraph wrote this week about Dawn Chorus Day, May 2nd, an annual event celebrating birdsong at the time of year when it has reached its raucous peak.  Apparently the birds sing loudly because it is the height of the breeding season and each song represents a spirited defence of their territories as they care busily for their young.  But it is the weather that really conducts this great seasonal orchestra.  The chilly mornings we have been having and a prolonged cold spell will perhaps dampen things a little this year.

Numerous studies have demonstrated the impact of cold weather, especially sharp frost and snow, on bird song.  Ground-feeding species such as wrens, larks and thrushes, which are are a key part of the dawn chorus, feel the effects of the cold more than most.  Coal tits, for some reason, are believed to be especially responsive to sunshine, while blackbirds will still sing in the rain.

                                                                                     *

I always think May is a bit of a treacherous month where the weather is concerned.  All of us longing to feel the sun, and welcome some warmth in the air, forget that in the evenings and at night it is still cold. We put on cotton shirts and possibly shorts, and not much else and then wonder why we have caught a beastly cold. I remember years ago staying with friends and pleased that the sun shone, I wore a summer dress. And was ill for weeks afterwards having caught a chill and a cold. I am still wearing winter clothes today and if the east wind blows I shan't venture out at all.

*

Very best wishes, Patricia.