rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Last night I arranged to shift my shopping trip from today to Monday, due to the prediction that the next major storm would arrive this afternoon. The rain hasn't started yet, so I'd have had plenty of time to shop and stay dry, and now it looks as though the brunt of the storm will arrive later tonight and continue tomorrow. Looks like I might have screwed up, but I'm blaming the weather service. Rain finally began to fall around sunset, and now it's getting harder and the wind is picking up. It will be a Bulwer-Lyttonish night.

The day was enjoyable, being col and relentlessly gray, and I'd have enjoyed going out, but too late to do anything about it now. At least I got to spend a Sunday afternoon without feeling rushed. The stray gray cat came by to eat again. This time Porky, one of the feral cats, was here, but he didn't pick a fight. He rarely does. A couple of hours later the stray made another visit, presumably to top off.

But the second visit didn't go well. No sooner had the stray settled by the food dish and nabbed a couple of bites than Shorty, the black feral cat, came out from under the jasmine hedge and threatened violence. The stray cat took off, and got caught for one brief, yowling tangle before managing to escape over the back fence. Shorty did not pursue it farther than the fence, and looked very pleased with himself for having run off the interloper.

But now that the rain has begun I should be mindful of my unstable Internet connection and get this thing posted before it goes away.

Sunday Verse


by Patrick Kavanagh

They laughed at one I loved—
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love's doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.


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