Folks, I have abandoned this book. My life can be spent in more pleasurable ways, including spooning out my eyes. As a final note, I'd be intrigued to know what Anthony Burgess was reading when he said it was the greatest novel of the century. I guess he didn't read much.
Evening reading. One of my favourite collections from Peter Riley, a small hymn to the Calder Valley.
'Yes, I thought, passing under Nutclough Mill at night, / I want to live under these lights'
Yesterday at City Fields, celebrating the new sculpture, Ever-Glow, by Graeme Mitcheson. It's lovely to see my words in stone.
The work celebrates the River Calder and the waterways of Wakefield.
With thanks to the Council and to Graeme for asking me to be part of it.
An orange evening. In the garden, the blackbird is doing his duskwork. I watch him, little traveller, with silver in his wings; and hold you in my memory. Love, does it still rain in your garden in August? Are you watching your blackbird too?
Early evening. In the garden, a blackbird sings his song to the sky. Over the terraces, the Calder, the fields; over the quiet allotments healed by rain; over the dusky woodlands where you speak my name like grief.
I love the twilght in these photographs by
@HenriPrestes
, found in
@AestheticaMag
.
There's something beautiful about the moments between sleeping and waking, like a giving and a vanishing at the very same time.
In Wakefield last week, unveiling the new sculpture at City Fields.
With thanks to Graeme Mitcheson, the sculptor, for sharing his commission with me.
It will be a beautiful light on dark winter nights.
Yesterday at City Fields, celebrating the new sculpture, Ever-Glow, by Graeme Mitcheson. It's lovely to see my words in stone.
The work celebrates the River Calder and the waterways of Wakefield.
With thanks to the Council and to Graeme for asking me to be part of it.
Morning in Yorkshire. Yesterday's stars are leaving us, misty and soft in the morning light. My mother is quietly gardening in the place of her mother before her. These are the moments I keep for my memory, the solaces of home.
Thought for the day. I wonder what a novel which takes place over the course of an hour, or a minute, or a second would look like, and whether it's even possible. Like Mrs Dalloway on crack.
I love the warmth of these illuminated moons by Leonid Tishkov.
"Private Moon is a visual poem telling the story of a man who met the moon and stayed with her for the rest of his life... Each photograph is a poetic tale, a little poem in its own right"
The new sculpture, Everglow, at City Fields in Wakefield. The work celebrates the River Calder and the waterways of Yorkshire.
With thanks to Wakefield Council and the sculptor, Graeme Mitcheson, for carving my words in the stone.
"Take a moment with a glass of wine... and sit out in the sunshine or by the fire; give the poems some time and they will give back to you over and over again"
- Deborah Alma.
Home, and the last of the warm mornings. I watch the neighbour's terrier play where snowfields soon will be. The sunlight leaves a seam of gold upon his coat, his soul.
"Poetry isn’t science; not bound simply to report on the state of things, poetry is free to imagine what could be"
A beautiful and haunting Guardian article by
@David_Farrier
on seascapes and the climate, featuring
@CalebParkin
and Steve Ely.
Evening rain. At Stanley Ferry, the boats rock gently in the water's hands. The moorhen settles in her nest for the night, tinkering with song. The birds sing colour to the air in summer on the steel canals of Yorkshire.
Sunday. In the garden, the wind brings the wet scent of summer from the fields. I turn a page quietly, and think of you under warm harbour lights, and the violet skies of Scarborough.
Early evening. At Stanley Ferry, the boats rock gently in the water's hands. I think of you across the night, watching the Calder cross the Pennines, over the darkness of Yorkshire.
Evening. I think of you in quiet hours, somewhere far from here. The birds are at their work again. Do you watch at golden hour the swallows on the terraces, the long cold miles they cross? Do you feel the way that absence soon will turn to loss?
I am considering getting rid of my phone. I haven't had social media (except Twitter) for three years and haven't missed it. I'm tired of consuming mindless information. My loved ones can call me on the landline. I want more time for the things I love.