Where the rainbow ends, the pavement frames fantasies of sweet powders left behind..
Half way through yesterday, having meditated here on the sonnet I have written for qarrtsiluni, it strikes me that I have only a few hours before the deadline. For some reason I have been thinking that I have another month. Fortunately the poem seems as finished as any poem ever is, and I send it off. I wonder, as usual whether the email has worked. It is a relief to have its arrival acknowledged. How many old style magazines would respond to the submission of a poem, as it were, by return of post, if respond at all?
Huddled under the 30s civic block, comprising the public library, town hall and police station, is a group of chirruping French school children. The architecture is plainly second rate. Passing it with a visitor to the town, you would try to avoid mentioning it, if it were not so blandly imposing. Drops of rain driven by the cold wind reinforce the bleakness of the welcome offered to the children. Perhaps something better than this will come of their outing and leave a happier and more deserving impression of England.
2 comments:
There's a post waiting to be written about deadlines: how they press, irritate, encourage the impossible, produce the best work, result in boastfulness (afterwards), terrify us when we depend on others to meet them, cause a sickening awareness of time. Nah, you don't need a list from me.
But sometimes, I miss them. The post is yours to write.
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