bench, suitcases, identity crisis

Composition under a bench.

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In a short story set in the 70s, John Updike describes Aeroflot air hostesses as " hefty as packed suitcases".

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On the BBC Shipping Forecast, surely among the corporations better programmes, I hear, with pleasure, of gales in sea area, Dogger " losing their identity".

colour, pot, numbers

Today's leaf.

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The wind gets inside a small, plastic flower pot that has blown on to the road. The pot dances and jumps, wobbles and trips, stops and stares and gapes at whatever is in front of it, as though shocked by what it sees. The wind blows into the pot, shoves it here and there, puffs through it and emerges from the little drainage holes in the base. It is a living pot leading a carefree life dictated by unforeseen and unknowable forces.

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From our bedroom window this morning I watch the remaining leaves on the tulip tree flutter in front of the cloud-creamy light of the sun. They flash in their fixed positions like numbers on a screen.

mahonia, wolf, ears

There isn't much that is wild in these parts. There are no wild woods or heathland, unless you include The Common, which incorporates a cricket field, is studiously maintained and divided by hard-top paths and one or two narrow roads, and so is urban rather than rural. For natural history, there are apart from The Common, the parks ( The Grove and Calverley Ground), where there are garden birds to watch and a few wild flowers. But seldom is there anything to set the heart racing. To make up for the scarcity of wildness, there are a number of exotic shrubs cultivated in the front gardens, which I pass daily, and which are not found in the wild. Where else would you see, in such profusion plants, which originate in the Himalayas, China, and other even more distant parts of the world? I snap this mahonia the other day when it is in flower and at the same time shows off its berries, ripe and unripe There are three different colours apart from reddish the leaves.

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The book which I have just finished has left me stunned and amazed. The Philosopher and the Wolf by Mark Rowlands is an account of the author's 11 years which he sharedwith a wolf while teaching in an American university, and later living inIreland and in France. Rather than a mere account of the mechanics of his relationship, it is a profound reflexion on the nature of existence, on love, death and the elusive and mysterious state of happiness; on what it is to be human and on what it is not to be human. So much is there to think about in it, that it is one of the very few books which I found not only difficult to put down, but wanted to start reading again immediately after reading the last sentence.

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In The Grove, the wind blows out the leaves still attached to a horse chestnut so that they resemble the ears of a spaniel running at full tilt.

mosaic, seeds, dialogue

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Leaves spread by the wind and flattened by the rain and footsteps on to the wet tarmac.

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I clear the riot of nasturtiums, many of them still in flower, from the vegetable beds where they self-sow every year and I dig the ground over ready for vegetable crops in the Spring. I know full well that among the lettuces or peas that I will be cultivating next year, the nasturtiums (they are the climbing variety) will sprout and clamber everywhere, over the fence and over anything that stands upright. At first I will hoe the seedlings out, but in time as the other vegetables are harvested, the nasturtiums will have the beds and the fence to themselves. Their scarlet, orange and yellow flowers and round green leaves will lie like a rich, variegated blanket over the garden. Now, as I bury the little caper-like seeds by the score,(they are like capers because the nasturtium is a close relative of the caper and its seeds may be substituted for them in cooking), I think that perhaps they should become the main crop in these beds, and I a nasturtium farmer.

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My third beautiful thing to day is a response from Lucy Kempton in Compasses to the question, "just what have you been doing with yourself?" And so the dialogue proceeds, encouraged by the time and the weather that ticks and blows through cyber space. Should the dialogue continue? There seems to be no doubt in either of our minds, that it should, though we agree that it should be allowed its own pace, quickening and slowing as the poems and our inclinations or other preoccupations dictate.

leaf, Waverley, bones

Every year I photograph single leaves like this several times because they are to my mind so photogenic. At first I would say to myself : "The same photograph: shame on you. It's as bad as repeating the same story to the same people." But then I say: "It's a different leaf (though probably not a different variety of leaf), a different day, a different year". Perhaps I should accumulate photographs of single leaves photographed in different years and print them in a long beautiful line.

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A woman comes into Hall's bookshop and says to the young man in charge: "I don't know if you would be interested. I have some books I want to sell. A complete set of the Waverly Novels. " "Are they in leather?" asks the young man.

"I can't remember. They're hardback I think".

"We've just put a complete, leather bound set up there," the young man says, pointing to the shelf.

"Oh there not nearly as nice as that."

"Well you can bring them in, and if the owner doesn't want them, they can always go to the charity shop a few doors down".

Poor old Walter Scott. Who reads him now? It always surprises me to learn how much admired he was by Nineteenth century French novelists, Balzac and Dumas in particular, both of whom are still widely read.

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Outside the kitchen shop in the Pantiles, two spaniels, one on a red lead, the other on a blue lead, are tethered to a lamp post, linked by the leads, which have been tied together. To keep them occupied they have been given a bone each at which they gnaw in a desultory fashion. The would rather their owner returned. The bones are recognisable as the "postman's ankles" regularly displayed at the butchers in Chapel Place.

pipes, umbrella, comfort

Going down.

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Within the railings that enclose the side of King Charles the Martyr is a deceased umbrella. Its spokes protrude in all direction from its shattered web of black nylon.

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As I walk briskly through the damp air - it is dripping rather than raining - I can detect no beautiful thing for the moment to post when I get home. But home now, sitting at my desk, I feel warm and comforted as I sip my tea. Beside me is the screen, to which I can transfer these impressions, a further source of comfort.

leaf, draft, convolvulus

Today's leaf.

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This morning I realize that the post which I crafted yesterday afternoon is still in draft form, allowing me to publish it with no more effort than a deft click. So this one, in making up for the absence of yesterday's, will be the second one today.

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Against the fence in the vegetable, I strip away some of the self-sown nasturtiums that drift over beds where they are not restrained. Weeds have begun to take over and, in clearing the ground for Autumn digging, I enjoy ferreting out the sinuous white roots of convolvulus (or bind weed), the smallest piece of which would become a sturdy climbing plant given the chance. These roots, like long white worms, have a special container to collect them like catch in a fisherman's bucket, as I can't trust them not take over the compost heap if they end up there. Despite their intrusive and pervasive habit, I think that convolvulus is the weed I can most easily forgive because of its immaculate bell shaped flowers.