Unfortunately, the more my mind’s eye sees green and gold, the more drained of all colour does the twilight seem. I try to see leaves on the trees and the courtyard filled with sunlight. I tell myself that all the rain we have had lately is good for nature, and that at any moment spring will surge on us. Beyond the moat, the boggy ploughed fields stretch to the leaden sky. Beyond the dank garden in the courtyard are the ruined walls on the edge of the moat. The view through the windows above the sink is excessively drear. I have decided my poetry is so bad that I mustn’t write any more of it.ĭrips from the roof are plopping into the water-butt by the back door. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring-I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house. I can’t say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. That is, my feet are in it the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog’s blanket and the tea-cosy. I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |