Poetic and Other Mumbles.

I’d just finished reading a short biography of Alfred, Lord Tennyson when I came across a reply I made to a comment on an old blog post. It read:

 It’s windy down in Devon

And wet as hell in Wales

So neither’s much like heaven

Unless you’re fond of gales

What does one have to do to become Poet Laureate?

And then I was browsing through my pictures file when I came across this:

 

 

As soon as I saw it some words dropped into my head from the usual mysterious source:

 

The church wherein a match was made 

Which closed a door and held the spade

Which dug…

I didn’t get any further. I think I probably didn’t want to.

I’m bored tonight, and I feel a little ill, and I’m chilled. I need some watchable DVDs and a giant box of good news (the unopened box of chocolates won’t do.) And a young Filipina nurse to stroke my arm again. And a body that functions like it used to.

I read some of my new Shirley Jackson novel late last night, and then fell asleep in front of the computer. When I woke up I felt so utterly weak and disoriented that I had no interest whatsoever in watching fresh ladies’ legs shuffle dancing on YouTube (which is unusual for me.) ‘If this is death,’ I thought to myself, ‘I don’t think I want to go there.’ And all I had to look forward to when I woke up this morning was today.