We'll sit outside and hide under umbrellas-
We're still finding our place in the world-
Not precisely, like a pylon or
A pop up toaster, but in a general
Way, stuck in the mud.
Not even securely rooted, like
Tribesmen tied to the same allotment, sure of
The local buses,
But earthed, for all that, in the chalky
Kent mud, thin sharp ridges between wheel tracks, in
Surrey's wild gravel.
Everything from the clouds downwards holds
Me in its web, like the local newspapers,
Routinely special
...
Bright with resourcefulness and smelling
Of rain. This narrow island charged with echoes
And whispers snares me.
-but we already know our home.
Photographs by Julia Suddaby.
---
The weeks go by and still less we speak, but I love you more every day ♥
Please keep sending everything that is beautiful and good our way (birdcage[dot]likes[at]gmail[dot]com) your emails fill our little world right up (right up)
Not precisely, like a pylon or
A pop up toaster, but in a general
Way, stuck in the mud.
Not even securely rooted, like
Tribesmen tied to the same allotment, sure of
The local buses,
But earthed, for all that, in the chalky
Kent mud, thin sharp ridges between wheel tracks, in
Surrey's wild gravel.
Everything from the clouds downwards holds
Me in its web, like the local newspapers,
Routinely special
...
Bright with resourcefulness and smelling
Of rain. This narrow island charged with echoes
And whispers snares me.
-but we already know our home.
Photographs by Julia Suddaby.
---
The weeks go by and still less we speak, but I love you more every day ♥
Please keep sending everything that is beautiful and good our way (birdcage[dot]likes[at]gmail[dot]com) your emails fill our little world right up (right up)