Wednesday, 3 August 2011
I've tightened up the poem so that it now reads:
On rare days, light falls slant though the east window
catching the plain north wall and playing with it:
the leaves of an ash tree almost brush the glass
so dapplings of colour take the breeze’s lead
and pools of liquid light baptise the lime-wash;
then I find that I’ve stopped piling on new words,
like those moments when a phrase in the Psalm
unexpectedly become translucent.
Meanwhile, Anglian Water was digging up the green outside St Michael's yet again yesterday. The workmen told me that it was to do with a meter monitoring the flow of the main pipeline into town.