Such inspiration as I find comes to me in the early hours of the morning, when I am half asleep, almost dreaming. By the time I am fully awake I have usually forgotten the subject of my thoughts as I have of my dreams. Unless that is I get to a piece of paper and a pen in time to make some notes. Thinking of the theme of a projected poem this morning I manage to reach my notebook in time. I write:
Dragon fly. Power.
Elephants trek across sand in search of water. Thirst.
Happy, happy, happy, happ ee e...
Perhaps it will make the poem I was looking for. Perhaps it will do as it is. Perhaps it will vanish from memory.
In the Pantiles this morning Father Christmas and some attendants from Hoopers, the local department store, arrive with balloons. The balloons are gas-filled and ride high above the little procession. Some of the balloons are black and some, mustard yellow. Soon people attending the Farmers Market and others, sitting outside cafes are holding black and yellow trophies aloft. One balloon, a black one, breaks loose and floats up into the sky. I look away and when I look back it has vanished. All day in Tunbridge Wells you see children with Hoopers' balloons bobbing above their heads.