I've had a busy few days but not working for a change, instead trips here and there. I've managed some partial plans for a new painting but it's very complicated and full of things. The fundamental idea is simple, but it might take some time to work out. A female model would really help, at least for the face.
Anyway, that aside, my nightly poems have continued. I did wonder whether it was worth it; making myself write even when I didn't want to, yet when I do I can surprise myself. This poem is a recent one, made up really quickly, and inspired by a walk in the deserted wilderness near Machynlleth. I pictured myself there, and an old white cottage, a farmhouse building in it's final years, and the poem just appeared. The subject matter doesn't apply to me at all really, but I imagined it so, and it seemed very true at the time.
Hill Fog
I'm walking in the fog,
wet mist,
grey, in the trees.
This place I've seen so many times,
from my childhood.
This carved ex is mine.
This rock feels like mine,
this step,
and old ivy vine.
The whitewash house is closed,
locked and neat.
The last latch left,
the last smile,
and the new sign set.
For Sale, in the wind
that smells of peat,
and I pretend
it's not an end.
Here's to you dad, now with mum!
Now I'm the old man not the son.
My house is yours, as my wife cleans through,
and I shout at her sometimes, like you used to.
My street is warm in my children's mind,
and their feelings will one day mirror mine,
as I touch this ex for one last time,
and not feel sad,
as I say goodbye dad.
