the best of British spirit

we are deluged. nous sommes le flood. the rain, it has rained, it will rain. all year. the ground squish squishes beneath our feet. great trees fall. fell. great trees planted by ambitious Victorians. (some collect stamps, others trees from around the world, a walk through the looking glass collection deep into the future).

we walk the banks of the Exe. a trickle in summer. managed. manageable between neat and tidy flood barriers, cement girdles. now, after the rain rain rain, Niagrarian in ferocity. red-brown as a fox. many foxes. a hundred thousand foxes. biting and nipping each others’ tails. pandemoniuous. ly.

oh lovely Exe. for we who live atop a hill warm, safe, we adore to see you unbound. but oh those below. flooded lives. no rails. oh no.

we stop by the railstation. coaches – buses we call them – row on row on row. laughter. jollity. the best of British spirit behind a canteen wagon handing out coffee and water and cookies (biscuits they call them here). the spirit of the Blitz. lovely. uncrabby. uncovetous. a generosity. 

 

back!

quelle detour! I entered another world with a single question. four years of my time, my life upside down, inside out. just to answer that question. then a major work seen through to completion, despite all odds.

now another huge work just begun. a daughter 3/4 grown.

survival —-> thrive with the multiple kindnesses, those who have camino’ed the last étape with me.

bound to the earth with words I want the light of grainy film loops.

and I have begun to sing again. Bach’s Mass in B minor. each phrase perfect. a fugue, sublime. someday I will return to the Abbey and sing with the boys again. the hours. the days. in deep winter. when the wolves are out. and the snowshoes clack in moonlight. someday.