Saturday, 12 June 2010
This is a very full day so not much time to post. The sun is out though thin streams of white cloud come thickening up at times. The wind is tossing the branches without any particular vigour, just enough to remind them it's there and could administer a more earnest buffeting. From upstairs the sound of the radio. Lily, more statuesque now, sits on the windowsill surveying the street. Pearl is skulking and hulking, ever ready for another bite. Son Tom is in Canada doing two gigs, one in Toronto, one in Montreal. Daughter Helen plays Scrabble with me on the computer at night when the baby keeps her awake. The desk is as clear as it has been for a while. I write a few lines for mother-in-law W's ninetieth birthday. The lines come out well.
Winnie, Clarissa's mother
Affection is not a subject much covered in contemporary poetry, nor is love. We watch our backs now, see our nerves jangle and hope to say the right things to the ironic elements. I note the irony and give it its due but I'm not going to be cowed by it.