||[May. 1st, 2016|08:42 pm]
A few sprinkles fall, and the evening breeze stiffens. The large cloud mass to the south slowly flushes from gray to the color of orange sherbet, then to salmon. To the west and north the scattered clouds are edged with pink, then red, until the whole sky returns to gray. It's a stimulating end to a rather placid day. This afternoon I sat watching tiny wisps of white cloud drift and dissolve on the bright blue sky, while larger masses of cloud hovered over the mountains. |
It got too warm for a while this afternoon, but now the rising wind, though merely cool, has blown the heat to oblivion. The crickets are chirping loudly. I prefer them to the bees who buzzed around me earlier and drove me indoors. Maybe it's just as well they did, or I might have sat on the porch for hours, imagining my self a vapor drifting among those wispy clouds. In fact I was a dead weight in that chair, and might never have roused myself from it had the bees not encouraged me to do so.
The shopping is done for the week, but I must go out again on Tuesday so that the chiropractor can yank my head about. My neck doesn't feel especially displaced, but that's no guarantee that the yanking will go smoothly. Last month I was quite sore, but the adjustment was quick and painless. Other time's I've felt pretty good but had a rough time letting the bits and pieces of my neck go back into their proper alignment. Naturally I always hope for an easy adjustment, especially so in spring, when I'm much rather be outside sniffing the fresh air than lying on the couch recovering from the session.
Right now I'd like to go outside and listen to the crickets some more. The sky is not entirely dark yet, but soon will be. Maybe we'll get some more sprinkles, though there's little chance of real rain. That stiff breeze is very inviting, though. I'll remember it fondly when sultry summer comes.
To the Green Man
by Mark Jarman
for Philip Wilby
Lord of the returning leaves, of sleepers
Waking in their tunnels among roots,
Of heart and bush and fire-headed stag,
Of all things branching, stirring the blood like sap,
Pray for us in your small commemorations:
The facet of stained glass, the carved face
Lapped by decorations on the column side,
And the entry in the reference book that lists you
As forester, pub sign, keeper of golf courses.
King for a day, or week, then sacrificed,
Drunk on liquor made from honey, urged
To blossom at your leisure, and caressed—
The temptation is to think of you without envy.
In Fewston, Yorkshire, near the open moor.
You are set in a church window above the altar.
Wreathed and strangled, amber-glazed, you wear
A look of non-surprise, a victim's cunning,
Though your tongue hangs as dumb as any death.
Elsewhere, when you make your appearances,
Out of your mouth stems and oak leaves grow—
Like speech or silence? Your eyes are empty cups.
Pray, vestige-secret of the trees, for us,
Surprised and pleased to find you any place.