Month: May 2015

Poem For The Weekend #34

It’s raining outside and the sky is cast grey like iron. A sweet, nostalgic poem for the weekend. Photo taken on a similarly gloomy day at Rattlesnake Lake in Washington last summer. xo When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. – W.B. Yeats

Weekly Thanksgivings

Making my week: sandal weather, a Wednesday film screening complete with toe-tapping jazz and a dear friend, meandering walks to the wisteria, poached eggs on toast, shared between two. Iced coffee at home, the first rose sighting of the summer, an evening sailing into the sunset, working in the garden with warm cat between feet. It’s been a quite wonderful week and I’m feeling ever so lucky.

Poem For The Weekend #33

The houseboat tilts into the water at low tide, ducklings slip in mud. Nothing is stable in this limbo summer, where he leaves his shoes in the flat. She decides to let a room, the ad says only ten minutes to the tube, I have a washing machine and a cat. The truth more of a struggle than anyone cares to admit. And everywhere progress: an imprint of cranes on the skyline, white vans on bridges, the Shard shooting up to the light like a foxglove – Karen McCarthy Woolf

Been There | North Norfolk

Things to remember… The alternate leaved saxifrage, blooming viciously along the roadside. Such a vivid, upbeat green, unseen in winter, surpassed only by the visceral joy of newborn blossom tangled in the thicket, flourishing doggedly in spite of the still-cool air. We wound our way daily along rural roads, familiar after years of visiting, the raspy voice of Springsteen an accompaniment to the lost county’s hairpin bends. A chipped vase of droopy camellias adorned the table at our favourite pub in Wells where we shovelled mushy peas into our hungry mouths so quickly that hiccups caught us. Giggles ensued. We walked back to the car with light hearts and green teeth, scraping the mud from our wellingtons on the kerb as we went, the April sun teasing out the freckles hibernating behind my cheekbones. (photos) with a Nikon D5100 and 35mm lens | Norfolk | April 2015