Sunday, 7 November 2010
we would discuss which of the routes to take-
across the tussocks in the cow-pat field
or by dim-shadowed lanes that wind below
boughs of elderflower, hawthorn, oak
Another path would bring us into
the peaceful graveyard of a Saxon church,
where chiselled names left shadows in our minds
sharper than those cast on weathered headstones.
Our favourite by far, was Emily Greenleafe.
We'd stop to say 'Hello', and felt by doing so
our thoughts reached out, perhaps tip-tinged with grief,
from this, our present 'now', back to her 'then'.
She would have known these self same country paths,
that all lead down to meet with harbour tides,
where seagulls send their plaintive cries to sea
as echoes riding winds from distant lands.
This has been simmering for a couple of weeks now, and The Poetry Bus driver, Jessica, asked us to write about bathing. I decided to ignore bathrooms, and take my ablutions to the sea, hence giving a very loose connection to this poem which has been occupying my thoughts!
And to get back to a bathroom theme, here's a re-run of a poem I wrote much earlier! The Gurgler. Now I demand two tickets for the price of one, Jessica.
There's a Gurgler in my sink
and I think he wants a drink.
When I slowly shift the plug,
that is when he starts to glug
as the water's rushing down.
I do hope that he won't drown.
It can't be very nice to swallow
soapy water from a hollow
gushing, pipe (so dark and gloomy!)
in the sink of my bathroomy.