But he stoops, now
in the dark
upon us;
he is treading our women
and we men are put out
as the vast white bird
furrows out feathersless women
with unknown shocks
and stamps his black marsh-feet on their white and
marshy flesh.
Come not with kisses
not with caresses
of hands and lips and murmurings;
come with a hiss of wings
and sea-touch tip of beak
and trembling of wet, webbed, wave-working feet
into the marsh-soft belly.
- D.H. Lawrence
Writing, writing, writing - of woods, wells and wishes. Discovering red hats and scissor necklaces. Radio ideas. Twin Peaks. Illness and cherries. Warm banana bread and pages of Waugh. Best of all; on Sunday it snowed. As a Narnian the chill, ice, cold breath, freezing fingers and thick drifts feels homely. Snow is normalcy, Celtic and magical. It clarifies my thoughts and fills me with hope. Yesterday I felt nothing in the world could trouble me as I drove north, under glass branches and frosted sky, and arrived at work to see Ben Y Vrackie white with snow.
In a moment I will tear cellophane off a new book. In another moment I'll have a bowl of porridge with warm milk. Simple joys.
