Dear Reader,
I have decided this week not to watch the news any more. It is just too awful to think about and horrific to see the pictures. I have read much about the two wars of last century and came to the obvious conclusion that wars are senseless, horrendous and barbaric and for what? Why do men (and I say men because it has been men who have declared war) want more land, or more of something, when they seem to have plenty of land already and the people of their country are getting on with their lives in peace. And peace is what most of us aspire to I suggest. What can we do to help? Well send a donation, which is what I am doing, otherwise if you are a believer, pray for a ceasefire and a halt to the war.
*
A small section of my book : 'Half a Pair of People' which will be out in April I hope.
I did the desk work in the mornings. Necessary fresh air was taken daily, after
lunch. Oxford is traditionally a city full of bicycle riders. (I think many
of them bicycle with an image of someone else in mind. Either a girl
at a secretarial college trying to resemble a student or a student
trying to resemble an academic. Or a North Oxford housewife trying
out her Greenham Common outfit). Anyway, I hate bicycles, and
maniacal cyclists. So, I tried a new venture, walking, which proved
both beneficial as exercise, and uplifting. It is a magical experience
exploring the diversities of Oxford on foot. Watching the canal boats
at Donnington Bridge, visiting the beautiful colleges, or walking
through the water meadows and stopping on the way back in a
bookshop, was a perfect way to spend the afternoon. In the evening
after supper, I learnt to enjoy the peace. It is, I know, corny to
elaborate on the process of ‘knowing thyself’. Newly single people,
intent on finding their own ‘space’, whatever that means, can bore
on about it interminably. But as Socrates, Alexander Pope and
Herman Hess strongly recommend the idea of knowing oneself, and
as I greatly respect their judgement, that is precisely......... *
Miracle
Rich in England's spring
cowparsley entrancing
in dog-rosed hedge,
the fecund earth lush green,
a baby swallow
hatches in a Suffolk barn,
to the cries of gulls
flying over mudflats,
over sea-lavender.
This small bird grows
embracing our summer warmth,
swooping on insects caught
above rolling grasslands.
It dips and tumbles gracefully,
trouble free.
But what instinct tells of winter cold?
This bird, hand-sized, will
fly over icy Pyrenees,
thirst through the parched Sahara,
soar and glide on trade winds,
south to the Cape of Africa
drawn, inexplicable to the heat
of the southern sun.
In early spring does
this swallow's courageous heart
grow restless, homesick for
a Suffolk barn?
Is it a miracle that some force
of nature returns this minute bird
to its birth-nest by the English sea?
Who knows, but it seems so to me.
*
With very best wishes, Patricia
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