Light nights are suddenly here properly: set off at nine tonight, the sky clearing and the temperature dropping as a cool not to say cold southerly wind blustered round us as it has been doing all day.
The sun was beginning to set behind a large rain cloud, emblazoning the horizon in black and gold and this year`s beasts cavorted merrily along the fence-lines as we walked past, apparently rejoicing in the fresh wind, the good grass and - well, life being pretty darned good really.
All very frivolous in the light of the book I`m reading, an account of a walk along the Israeli barrier by comedian, activist and serious rambler Mark Thomas.*
And, for something completely different, a poem. I`m afraid I quickly start losing the will to live with an awful lot of poetry but this one by Paul Farley absolutely cracks it and best of all made me laugh out loud:
The Heron
One of the most begrudging avian take-offs
is the heron's fucking hell, all right, all right,
I'll go the garage for your flaming fags
cranky departure, though once they're up
their flight can be extravagant. I watched
one big spender climb the thermal staircase,
a calorific waterspout of frogs
and sticklebacks, the undercarriage down
and trailing. Seen from antiquity
you gain the Icarus thing; seen from my childhood
that cursing man sets out for Superkings,
though the heron cares for neither as it struggles
into its wings then soars sunwards and throws
its huge overcoat across the earth.
*Extreme Rambling
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment