This is hopefully going to be slightly more coherent than the last couple of postings, but there are no guarantees. In this world there are no guarantees.
Here are a few pics from my London trim. I mean trip. As you can see we went to see a fireworks display, but in fact it was in the local park and as my daughter's mother's brother doesn't like paying for things, allegedly, we snuck down the lane by the river next to the park to try and see the show for free, hence the trees.
He barely acknowledged me, although he shook my hand, grudgingly, when I offered it, although a lot of reasons said I shouldn't have, and the funny thing is our kids, his son and my daughter, cousins, laughing and giggling, were oblivious to it all. The follies of adults.
The last thing I remember of that family is them kidnapping my angel through crazy Greek pride, with her brothers screaming and swearing down the phone in front of her, my Mist, what memory must she have of that, hearing her father bad-mouthed, who just wanted to see her, venting their ire against another crazy Greek passionate soul, and the madness went on. And on. And a dear friend had to suffer that, and she wasn't sure what was going on but she helped nevertheless.
Reminds me of a playground drama which has been taking place recently. Apparently my daughter hit another girl, or it was possibly the other way round, but anyway, it doesn't matter, what's really funny is that once the kids have made up, the parents are still at it! Deeper than pride, or what? Drop it, girls!
Trying to pop in a couple of old poems that I haven't read for a long time, but which tell me quite a lot about myself, in retrospect. That's the frightening thing. Retrospect.
Look at the joy on her face - look at that innocence, that untainted moment, that we can still feel as adults, sometimes, either through our children, or genuinely, for ourselves, just for a moment, sometimes.
And here's my trip back into the east, echoing others, like this poem, going going gone, like my latest love, inspiring poems and poems, but what do they mean in the end?
I bought some books in London. Positive books, and I carry them with me religiously. Like they're going to change my life. I fill in the latest wonder-solution form to all the world's unhappinesses. This time it's going to work. I tell myself. But in the end.
All that really matters is a little girl's laughter, when all's said and done. So I'm slowly sharing a couple of poems with you on this lazy Sunday, somewhat slightly sunny, if I look across the way to my Chimneys of Lust, which seem to be basking, wanly, in some sort of illumination, not too drab. Maybe the sun his risen in the Shires one more time. Who knows?
Clouds are fleeting, watch them drift away... Sx