I stood on the edge of a carpet of decaying roses in the middle of July of this year, which was, I think, around six weeks after they had been laid down. What amazed me was how long the flowers were lasting; that is to say, how they were still offering something to be enjoyed … Continue reading Decay
I feel like I’m adjusting from this to that, from something to other, but I have no idea what either is. I simply have a sense that I am somewhere indeterminate, somewhere between before and after. How’s that for a jumbled description of my current juddering internal compass? Let me try harder to explain. It’s as … Continue reading Stew
Micro seasons – I had never heard of such a thing until R. explained the concept to me and immediately it made sense. Four even seasons, neatly contained within three-month blocks, is far too wide a cut to allow for any of the nuance that cusps between seasons can bring. How on earth can we … Continue reading Micro Seasons
The temperature is dropping, the days are shortening, the wind is heightening. Morning mists cling. The grass isn't calling to be cut so often. Routine, order, timetables – they’re all being restored. Light cotton dresses are folded and put in the bottom drawer, sandals to the back of the cupboard, the straw hat releases a … Continue reading On The First Day of September
‘A watched pot never boils’ – that’s what my Nana used to say, meaning that the more we concentrate on a desired outcome, the longer it seems to take. She was also a fan of the phrase, ‘as soon as my back is turned’ – that one wasusually employed in relation to me pilfering sweets from her … Continue reading Waiting
‘At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon.’ My book group has just finished reading Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. Insights such as this into … Continue reading Far Off Fields
St. Patrick’s Day came early for me when I attended a Scottish-Irish poetry event during the week. One of the poets was a young Dubliner called Stephen James Smith. Without reference to paper or book, he delivered a long, lyrical, swiftly paced poem called, ‘Dublin You Are.’ He captured us. It was a love poem … Continue reading Ireland, My Ireland
I’m just back from a few days in Ireland, of the Northern variety. There was much talk of uncertainty. T. spoke about her father’s farm, the far fields of which run along the seam of the border. “There’s more talk of Brexit than there are cups of tea taken, and that’s saying something,” she told me. … Continue reading Brace Ourselves For Change
“Basically you’ve run away.” The words slipped out, loosened by the Burns Night whisky; I called it Talisker-tongue. I immediately feared that branding her a runaway may not have been the most sensitive thing to say, but S. didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, she giggled delightedly. “Yes, I suppose you could say that, … Continue reading Runaway
“Could you send me the name of the wine you brought when you came for dinner the other night?” Ping. Back came an immediate response: “Canny Mind.” Gone are the days of wines being named after the vineyard, the land where the grapes are grown or the winemaker himself. Château Des Maures, Cloudy Bay and … Continue reading Canny Mind
