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
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