The land reclaims the flesh, and
The seasons whirr like the mechanism
Of an old clock,
Her body jerks and stills
When the young lovers do come.
She devours them all, one
After the other, until none are left
For her to share her wisdoms with,
For a few breaths, until the next
Harvest arrives before summer has
Her hair stays the colour of corn,
Never any grey despite the advanced
Years of her hermitage.
R 17/03/2023 20:42
This week – relentless.
I need to catch up on R’s and A’s blogs over the weekend.
O has been cooking for M and me this week because M on lates, and I tend to extend my working day to fit in with hers.
So many things I really do want to scribble down that have been worthy of note – bumping into Andy a few doors down and finding out more about him, being on BBC Radio Norfolk (and the old lady I met beforehand who wanted to protest about the BBC’s closure and betrayal of many local radio stations but could find no-one because there’s no-one to man reception) and talking lyrics and writing and music with Stephen B and Marina; all the things that managed to shove themselves into the relentlessness of life and make it worth having. And reading Im Westen Nichts Neues (All Quiet On The Western Front for those of you who don’t speak German0, and being amazed and enlightened by the poetry and modernness of Remarque’s language in something written almost 100 years ago. All this and more…
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