Saturday, 18 February 2017

The Awakening

Dear Monty,

I have almost felt like giving up writing to you, maybe it's a bit like how Virginia Woolf describes writing in her diary ...' the worst of writing is that one depends so much on praise. I feel rather sure that I will get none for this story; and I shall mind a little.'


An un-lived life to be lived


Spears cut the cold membrane of soil

Hope returns.

I would bring you gifts -

Coffee in bed, flowers

But 'the ebb and flow of the tide of life'

Washes over me.

I dream of the white cotton

Your grassy bed

The uplands

The soft cushion of bracken.

I think of the spring from where you came

Gushing forcefully out of geology

The geology of our roots

Our minerals

Our skin and bone

The hills and the river

Our home.