The Door

                                                                                    The closed door
 

Dear reader,

What a week we have had with all the government machinations.  So finally Boris had to retire and for my two penny's worth that was completely the right decision, and he should have made it sooner.  It wasn't really terrible for me that he attended a birthday party or didn't, it was the fact that he told lies. Oscar Wilde said: "whoever let the truth get in the way of a good story" an anecdote that Boris made his own.  I have met many men of his ilk tell stories of perhaps shooting achievements, or of the size of the fish they have caught, or just general exaggerations and, because it is often funny, nobody minds.  In fact often when I tell a story I exaggerate to make it more amusing, and my children often point this out.  But as Prime Minister exaggerating and distorting the truth just won't do. We need integrity in a leader, someone we can trust.  Let us hope that the next chosen one keeps to the truth, however difficult that may be.

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I know it is going to be very hot this week and so for me a week of drawn curtains and a very quiet life.  I have never sunbathed even when I was young. But for all you who may love the heat and the sun have a lovely time.  Enjoy, as they say.

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From William Cowper, June 13th, 1783 in Buckinghamshire

'The fogs..... still continue, though till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense heat could make it.  The sun continues to rise and set without his rays, and hardly shines at noon.  At eleven last night the moon was a dull red; she was nearly at her highest elevation, and had the colour of heated brick.....Dead ducks cannot travel this weather; they say it is too hot for them, and they shall stink'.

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The Door

needs oil, creaks,
is heavy to push open
into that shut, secret room.

The mind-cabinet
has been closed
to the mystery-blue subconscious
to creativity,
shut tight against thoughts
which disturb quiet sleep,
and assail unasked, imploring,
impatient to be heard,
burdened with things that need telling.

Then I heard a gentle voice whisper
in the warm summer night:
"Pick up your pen, start again,
let the words flow, write...."

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With very best wishes, Patricia