Tuesday November 23, 2004
I had a fine time this morning, strutting around Boston. It was dry, and mild, and I got all the things I wanted. I finished up with an espresso and a panettone in Costa Coffee and felt that my world was pretty good, all things considered.
And then, when I got home, I realized I’d not taken my camera out of its bag. Again. I have no good reason beyond a brain that simply doesn’t seem to think about taking pictures out of doors just now. I really must do something about this.
I decided to make the rest of the day a feet up, resting kind of holiday, picked up my book, day-dreamed over a couple of new-to-me poems by Andrew Motion, felt my will to stay awake drift slowly away, and so I snoozed happily until way past the time when I should have drawn the curtains and shut out the dark. So I put the kettle on and wandered about covering windows and snapping on lamps. As I switched on the electric log fire in the living room I looked over to the sofa, with Harry sleeping soundly on one end and Dolly stretched out on the other. She opened one eye, possibly two, and regarded me solemnly.
“It’s alright, Dolly,” I said, all quiet-like so as not to wake Harry. “You carry on sleeping, luv.”
So she stretched even more, yawned, curled her toes, and shut her eyes once more.
It was a quiet evening from then on.
When I was sitting in Costa Coffee this morning a stray poetry particle must have zoomed in from the poem-o-sphere, because a cluster of words started buzzing around in my head. They kept buzzing all day, through my nap and even through my favourite TV programme. So I sat down and scribbled it out all in one go. I had to change only one word when I put on my critical spectacles. I’m pleased enough with it, and don’t think it’ll need further revision:
A line of trees