The road at Flaxpool

Somerset: Thursday September 22, 2005

The week has been an odd mix of haste and idleness. All haste to get here, haste each day to get Graham to work, to get out and fetch provisions, and long lazy sessions enjoying the air and the peace.

In front of the caravan is the first of a line of poplars. When the wind blows they thrash the air; even when there is no wind they still move, filled with leafy murmurings.

I need not have worried about the roots I left behind. As I wander about the places I knew, as I journey along familiar roads, I find myself connecting with them, savouring old tastes, vibrating to long established rhythms.

I found a small poem growing, triggered by a turn in the road and a memory, on the way from Taunton to Williton:

 

The road at Flaxpool
 
The road still turns at Flaxpool.
Five poplars line the way
as they did before. And,
heading up the hill, a line
of paper doll thorn trees still
dances along the Quantock crest.
 
John Bailey
Somerset, September 2005

 

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