Talking About It

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.

Revelation

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,

Dave.