THAT’S NOT MINE, MINE'S CRISPY
This morning the wind is moving things in gentle swirls and beckoning in the drizzle; it brings the scent of rosemary and grass as the birds chatter unseen in the hedges.
Alt text says this week’s photo is a selfie of two people. I say it is me and my sister walking under a storm cloud. We are decorated by ‘thunder bugs’, and both wearing black hoodies. She kindly washed mine for me after the walk and when she handed it back to me later on, I declared, “That’s not mine, mine’s crispy.” And that’s when I learned the difference fabric softener makes to one’s washing! (And a little google of thunder bugs tells me that another name for them is ‘thrips’ and I rather like that so will be adopting that into my language.)
No blog writing took place on Bank Holiday Monday, but as a gentle nod to Singing As The Darkness Lifts, my sister and I went out to smell the air and confidently declared that it smelt of air! She often tells me this when we talk on Mondays, she knows I will have recorded the scent of the air first thing in the morning, and in those conversations she often tells me matter of factly that where she is it just smells of air. Now I too have smelt that very smell alongside her. A long drive home then treated me to time with a much-loved playlist, and, as the sun began to set, the heady smell of rapeseed pollen under a wide sky.
It has been a time of moments recently. Stillness. Patience. A buzzard on a fence post. Applauding a flyover from a heron. A rainbow in a storm. A 5p found on the ground at a motorway service station. That tyre pressure light. Seizing the moment to drink tea on the settees of family and friends. Asking for a drink in a coffee shop by using its advertising tagline to see if the person taking the order laughs.
And a new writing desk. Sometimes I spend too long flicking through my phone, but recently it led to a serendipitous moment when I saw that a friend had a writing desk for sale. Mine was old and faithful, and it always surprised me just how much I could get done in such a small space – so many poems and videos and meetings and essays and coaching sessions. It was originally gifted to me many, many moons ago by a neighbour of my grandparents and has easily fitted into every place I have ever lived. It has been well and truly loved and as it retires I tip my hat to just how well it has served me. And now into service comes a new beauty, with space aplenty. This then reminds me of that time we were asked to bring something to show which was important to us when I first started my coaching training. Being a little nervous at starting something new I had everything ready, but felt the urge to double check before the meeting started. I felt a little bit clumsy and fumbly (and everything was crowded into a small space) and as I reached for the glass paperweight to check that it wasn’t dusty before I shared it with a group of new people, I knocked my hand on my laptop screen and promptly dropped my show and tell object into my glass of water. I do like to be ready for things before they happen, so my heart beat a little bit faster as I dipped my hand in to retrieve it and hurriedly wiped it on my jeans to dry it off. At least that solved the dust problem, I told myself as I took a deep breath and clicked to join the meeting.
I am pretty confident that my readiness will be easier where I now sit so here's to finding the space we need for the things that bring us joy, and for appreciating the old and the new!
This past week I was keen to find out what kind of poem would be the first to be written at my new desk (and when it would take shape). Pleasingly it was a love poem that flowed. They are quite rare for me and come with a little fanfare and sparkles when they arrive. Whilst thinking about the act of writing poetry ‘Rescuing the Giraffe’ came to mind. I read it this week at Crafty Crows and will also share it here. It’s a poem about finding a giraffe in a crack in the ground after an earthquake. It might also be a poem about writing a poem. It was originally published in an anthology by Yaffle Press after being longlisted for the Yaffle Prize in 2021 and it then went on to be included in my second full collection of poetry Welcome to the Museum of a Life.
Rescuing the Giraffe
I count the tangled legs; make it six,
one head, so I count again.
This time I make it a knotted four
its eyes are fixed on mine
as if I was its mother.
But how do you retrieve
a giraffe from an earthquake crack?
And then what do you do with it?
The trees are bare
and I feel unqualified
for this emergency act.
I am sure its skin will feel like suede
and those hot chocolate eyes implore.
You are a poet, you owe me this, it says,
so, I sit on the edge
reach down my hands
pat its gentle rump.
It is all muscle under that thin, soft skin.
I stroke tentatively.
Don’t bite me, I say,
and the giraffe is offended.
OK, what I mean is
it might be uncomfortable
while I sort out your legs.
It barely makes a sound as I work.
Released feet scrabble to find their place
on the jagged sides of the hole.
It is ready for the haul.
My arms cradle its stomach,
leaving the legs to dangle,
and I have him rising.
He is as unsteady as the day he was born;
skidding like a skater on their first rink.
But finally, he is up,
shaking off confusion
and I am seeing the size of our shadows.
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