In today's paper I come across the expression "madder than a box of frogs".
A poem, which I believed I had finished a week ago, has been maturing, in the dark. In other word I hid it away and refrained from re-reading it. I had not counted the number of drafts I produced-swirling vortices of words and images in pursuit of ideas - but they amounted to a stack of paper inches thick. Today, it seems that enough time has passed to put the finished poem to the test. When I read it this morning, it is as though it is not my work at all. It has settled down like a well balanced wine. There is nothing I need to change and no additions are wanted. That doesn't mean that it is any good. Will I ever know that? But I feel a sense of relief that the agonising is over.
In the Grove, three generation play football. A little boy in a blue track suit; his father in chinos and a brown tee shirt; his grandfather in a straw hat, open neck shirt and shorts. The grandfather makes a big deal of running after the ball and dribbling. He emphasises his age by trying to be younger than he is.