Bus Stop Princess

 Dear Reader,

There aren't many things to laugh about at the moment but I did find this small story funny.  At one university, I can't remember which one, a university don suggested that students find hand writing so tiring it would be better for them if they could take a typewriter into exams.  Can you believe it?

I have always written my poems by hand.  I think that the flow of ideas for a poem comes down through my head into my  hand.  This is not the case when I use the computer.  Many famous poets and artists do believe that something spiritual, or even divine, happens when the muse taps and a painting or poem or piece of music is born.  I notice that you, the readers, like my poems that have been sent to me by a Higher Being of some sort, the best.  In my case I think it is the Lord Jesus Christ who enters my soul, and without Him I can't really write.

This day next week will be Boxing Day.  As of today we don't know if there will be a lockdown on Christmas Day, but whatever happens have a lovely time.  If we are on our own Francis and I will sing carol, play scrabble, lift a glass or two and be enormously grateful for all our blessings.  

Happy Christmas to you all.

 

                                                                                     *

 From Gilbert White, December 25th, 1799 in Hampshire

'Vast rime, strong frost, bright, and still, fog.  The hanging woods when covered with a copious rime appear most beautiful and grotesque.' 

From Dorothy Wordsworth, December 25th, 1802 in Westmorland

'It is today Christmas Day, Saturday, 25th December, 1802.  I am thirty-one years of age.  It is a dull, frosty day.'

                                                                                    *

Bus Stop Princess

She waited, unnoticed, invisible.
Her fluffy green jersey egg-stained,
uninteresting trousers and sensible shoes
inviting no attention.
She was a brown paper parcel,
loosely string-tied.

But she smiled at me
with such sweetness,
such a smile of goodness,
I saw her sensible shoes
become sparkling slippers,
her shabby clothes
turn into a ball dress
fashioned from sunlight
stitched up with love.

Not then a story-book princess,
but a real princess
glimpsed at a bus stop.

                                                                                   *

Very best wishes, Patricia