Friday, 18 January 2013


And peeling the potatoes
I found myself thinking of  layers mash
And remembering all  those chickens
And the  bantams
And the game bird
Blue and green eggs
And someone telling me not go in the coop
Wearing red toe paint.
The fox that killed them all
The giant goat mad with grief
The black kitten dragging in a rabbit
Twice his size.
The welsh settle,
Riddling the aga.
The enormous fireplace that we could all stand in and look up at the moon.
Mike's joke about the shovel.
Your joke about my mince pies.
The pink front bedroom
The sloping bathroom floor
The pub sign I painted
Your yellow van
Your blue green eyes
Your dark celt heart.
A tarnished wedding band
That I no longer wear
And a welsh last name
That I no longer bear.


  1. sad. And to trace your thoughts like that. I used to try to trace my thoughts backwards to where I started because I wanted to figure out how my brain ended up where it was. Gosh that sounds confusing but somehow think you will get it ♥

  2. Yes, I do get that, totally. This wasn't a small stone as you can guess, but part of a group of poems I call Another Place, in which I use something, like a smell or taste or an action, as a memory trigger. I got this idea from Marcel Proust, who kind of invented this, it's become known as involuntary memory. Sometimes I create the whole thing, sometimes it's a real incident like this was, and so strong I had to write it down. I've learnt from reading Pema Chodron to open my heart to painful memories, with as much acceptance as possible and allow myself to be sad and ok about that sadness.