The following poem and met map explain the heat we are experiencing. My first reading of this ‘Heated (August 2022)’ made me think of our personal and collective responsibility. Our grass was crisp and crunchy as I walked over it late this afternoon. I am very grateful to Kim for letting me share his poem here.
Category Archives: poetry
I love the following poem by Brian Bilston who has very kindly given me permission to share it with you. I love how, in the humour, he always manages to raise the political and to make clear his feelings. Thank you, Brian.
The following photos are of international cats – one who lives in Arizona and one who lives at the allotment here in Redruth.
Bees, wasps, flies and many other little creatures act as pollinators and are responsible for much of our food. I learned at our allotment talk on Sunday that bees have four wings and flies only two. To me this looks like a bee but it appears to have only two wings…….
Brian Bilston, a poet I admire greatly, has, very generously, given his permission for me to post this gem here for you, Dear Readers.
Last week I had to visit St Michael’s hospital for an assessment on my ankles (new ones or fused ones – don’t like the idea of either option) and while I was there having a test done, I realised that I had lost the top button from my cardigan. The lovely Nurse who was looking after me said she would look for it and post it to me. Today it arrived! What a really lovely kind thing for a very busy person to do.
We walked along Cliff Road in Falmouth today, nice and flat for the lovely Mr S who is really walking well now and along there are planted some really interesting plants. Perhaps someone can help me identify this one. I thought it was a Scilla but it seems not……
Today’s poem in A Poet For Every Day of the Year is a provocative one for a teacher like me. It irritates me that this child was chided so when she was enjoying her slow read but I love the enjoyment she finds in reading and re-reading. .
It’s officially Spring and all over Cornwall there are swathes of shades of yellow, both primroses and gorse in the hedgerows and hundreds of daffodils lining the sides of the roads. It is glorious and our route to Truro today was a pleasure.
The lovely Mr S saw his surgeon today, seven weeks after his knee replacement surgery. All declared a success. The hard work on exercises is paying off.
When I visited friends recently, they picked some daffodils from their woodland for me to take home to the lovely Mr Smith and they are in front of the wood burner in the sitting room. We love how the outside petals are twisty.
We learned a new piece at choir yesterday and it was so joyful, I thought you might like to hear it. The music is by Mozart.
A shaky phone-cam filmed it all and soThe whole world sees a peasant woman findingStrangers in her land do what peasants always doFor strangers as she ignores the guns and standsFour square and strong and offers them a gift,Those soldiers with their guns and bandoliers,Grenades and wire cutters, their killing knives.Their helmets and their gibbering headsets.She holds out to them her gift: handfulsFistfuls of sunflower seeds, little pods of graceAnd welcome. It is the way with peasant peopleEverywhere, even in this day of days,For those who have the least will always give the most.But the seeds came wrapped in words,These words,“Keep them in your pockets boys so, when we buryYou in Ukraine’s soil, sunflowers will climb fromYour graves toward the blue sky of the truth:Here take them, they are good, I harvested them last year.Take them so that the flowers will be a monument toThe murdered children and the familiesYou bombed out of their homes; the flowersWill stretch their golden faces to the skyAnd in the night the flowers will whisperSoftly to the wind, ‘Here lie the murderersThat came out of the East, unwelcome and unwanted,Destroyers of beauty, carriers of madness,Cursed for all eternity.’The fields of flowers will drop their seedsEach year so that those to come will understandTheir stories, stronger than granite,More beautiful than marble,These sunflowers will tell the worldHow your young lives were wasted hereOn our rich soil made richer by your bonesAnd flesh, and your own mothers will comeThroughout the empty yearsTo water with their salty tearsThe endless fields of flower heads,Golden, turning in the sun.”