Where have those days gone that sprang from the bed joyously. Where has it all gone. Now the slow heavy weight of walking lingers through the hour, through the hours. Slowly after breakfast some of the night is thrown off. Thrown clear for a moment. Where is the bright blast that carries all before it. Where can it all hagve got to. What dispells it so slowly now.
once there were mornings, now there are really only afternoons. Afternoons like butterflies from a sunny wordld. So to start so grey. So slow to statrt so grey. The day moves outward and slowly the noon sun reaches in to see me. So tired. Just wanting to escape. To leave it behind. So tired. The winter measures the old leaves dying one by oine. The faded lastly holds on to keep the spring at bay. Snowdrops dispel their heavy grace to show the clean world where. Soon too soon they fade for a golden fortune.
Here the house has filled with the tired guilt of the dog. Tara sees me coming and cowers away to hide under the stairs. I look around to see what she has done but can find nothing. Whatever fills Tara's mind with guilt seems to have been nothing. Later out for a walk she barks at an old man, and then a bicycle, so perhaps it'sw just a strange day for her. So bright it makes the tiredness deeper. So bright she casts gloomy shadows over me in the mornings. So active. No space to rest in through the pure activity. It all rushes out to be seen in Tara. Whatever it is happening I can't find what it is.
On the television were images of family confrontations. It is all make-believe. All pretend and I start to support the pretence. I don't wish to see representations of family pain on the television for entertainment. Somehow it seems not quite right. I'm not quite sure what purpose it serves save some vivarious pomp of self justification.
Walking through the woods at Tehidy. Thin sad unloved woodland now being managed. Being wrenched into time. Senility no longer allowed to rest here in the crumpled trunks. Young oaks grown old before their time. Thinning it all to keep the best. The well-spaced. On the ground lie the relicts of past trees. The branches lie in scattered broken litter. All the youth of spring plants lies flattened beneath a new litter of old.
Firm tracks of flattened stone lead through the start. I had hoped to be alone here but there are people parking and driving and opening their windows releasing puffs of foetid hot air over the clean fields. Here by close by the north cliffs the sound of waves is lost in the strong winds. I remember long ago looking at the black lichen thatb grows just above the tide line like floating oil. Here it lives and grows in thin black stains. Hewre the wind kills even the sustaining sound of waves crashing. Puffs of foetid hot air escape towards me and are caught by the breeze and shot to fragments.
Well worn paths through trees fall to mud so easily. Dogs dance through mud with relish. Warm dog smells will be enhanced by wet mud. Jia rolls to collect something the horse no longer wanted. Heavy breathing dogs will soon fill the cold car with hot foetid breath. Firm footsteps reach the path through the smeared mud. This road goes somewhere to think it would have to. At the end of the park the road passes away by a sign welcoming the itinerant incomer. Working up through the old planted trees to find an older path. A well placed fine path winds secretly through the tree canopy looking down. This view has more that is real to commend it. The standing trunks mourn their passing colleagues in the broken litter. Moss grows but faintly here. A Jay is screaming at another Jay. The woodland is more alive than the people who built the paths. A woodland to rejoice in time. To allow it all to grow. There is a scrubby cherry, some birch, some planted conifers but large spaced of wizened oaks. Drawn and slender but not a straight trunk between them. Wedged so tight the whistling wind bounces over the tops of the knobbly twigs.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer collects two hundred pounds each second from the duty on alcoholic drinks.
Reading follows the line towed by a much loved bookmark. A sandalwood bookmark carved to an elephant slipped into the pages. So many pages it has seen over these years and now the scent is mostly a memory. Warm smelling pages no longer greet the delayed return toi the book. Now just the shape and the memory await.
Woods scented of moist leaves, of old books. Woods sharp as hope the scent of spring backs away from the hard stone paths leaving a clear empty scent of city centres even here. Through the waiting bushes push to find again what has been displaced. Find it all here walking through the tired woods.
I'm not the oly one you have waited for.