So I've heard that talking about it helps. Since I can't quite bring myself to talk about it, I'm going to write about it, since that helps not as much, but enough. So there's a gap. There's a little bit of time every day that I don't spend talking to my mum. Like today, I had a great game of cricket, and I haven't really told anyone about it. And I'm fine with that, because now I'm learning to enjoy it for myself, and that anything else is just a bonus. But I know she would've loved to have heard about it, and it would've made her happy. It didn't have to. She chose to. Not everyone has parents like that. I don't know. I'd just have liked to have shared today with someone.
The cricket was amazing, of course! It was epic, in a way I didn't think I could play. The bowling was a little substandard, pickin up a few tailenders, 4-0-24-3. pretty happy. Happy enough that I could go in relaxed for the last half-a-dozen overs, and score 41! Holy shit, I can't even believe it now. I just swung at anything that came my way, and ran like my life depended on it. It's a personal best for me, and I think I lost about a stone in sweat. Asides from that, I got everything sorted out for the Nouse film page, and this edition's lookin a cracker.
Here's a couple of poems I wrote a few days ago.
A Good Year
A good year it's been now. Coarse and brittle,
A rainless year, without memory of rain,
Without a prayer for a squall,
Or the lousy grump of October.
A full year now, since the pang of thirst
Was settled, and reminders of that
Love I felt first, cast to the roadside on
That cruel April evening, driven out.
A bloody year it's been, with blood-torn nights
And arse-dry days, where no bitterness
Lies, for the senses have crumbled, no scent of
Summer looms, no words lie in the throat,
For want of you.
Standing by a clearing, unassuming,
Awaiting discovery, great rock
Behemoths shading the wood. There sits
A fallen trunk worn smooth by time,
A wizened oak skinned by curious walkers,
Curiously slumped, wide-eyed
Transfixed by terrible earth-woven beauty
On stony earth. But none the wiser,
For once seen, the western landscape,
The drumlins and cliffs, like so much
Ham-fisted doggerel, stands
Unassuming, the noise of myth fallen silent.
Waiting, cloth-eared, pulse-shocked,
The great stone bastards hold their breath.
Pirates of the Caribbean tomorrow. Wheeeeeeee
Thanks for reading,