Casting of dog from the ashes of Pompeii
As 2019 draws to a close I want to thank you all for your interest in my scribblings and I hope I have brought you some joy. My door remains open with a welcome on the mat for 2020.
You still have some time left to do this year one more thing to set the world aright. Make an awkward phone call, make an overdue apology, do a thing you have put off for too long. There’s still time.
Excerpt from “Year’s End” ; by Richard Wilbur
…………..And at Pompeii
the little dog lay curled and did not rise
but slept the deeper as the ashes rose
and found the people incomplete, and froze
the random hands, the loose unready eyes
of men expecting yet another sun
to do the shapely thing they had not done.
So here we are on the 31st of March and we reach my favourite time of year. The clock has sprung forward and at last it feels that we have bested the winter and emerged again into the world. The spring flowers are brightening up the sere landscape and the first tender buds are emerging from the hawthorns.
Time to get busy in the garden sowing the new season vegetables. We play the annual game of chance with the weather. When to plant out the seedlings nurtured in the conservatory? Too late and they become pot bound. Too early and we risk a late frost carrying them off and ruining weeks of work.
Frost and Spring….reminds me of a poem….
March 26th 1974 (R.Frost 100th B’day): by Richard Wilbur
The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In wet dull pastures where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch, and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
And making free with natural law?
I stopped and blinked, and then I saw
A fact as eerie as a dream.
There was a subtle flood of stream
Moving upon the face of things.
It came from standing pools and springs
And what of snow was still around;
It came of winter’s giving ground
So that the freeze was coming out,
As when a set mind, blessed by doubt,
Relaxes into mother-wit.
Flowers, I said, will come of it.