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I think we have had but a short autumn and are now in winter. It is cold, and has been blowing a hooley for the past few days. This evening, as I drove home from work about 6pm, the car warning light came on for 'possible frost'; in other words the temperature had dropped down to 4C for the first time in many months. The wind has blown all the leaves from the pear tree in the garden, they are a soggy mass under foot in the yard. And yet there are still both fuchsias and geraniums in bloom in the yard... weird.
Unrelated to the weather, I have been reading "Bliss Like This", a collection of five centuries of love poetry written by women. There are some wonderful poems in it - you may find another one or two cropping up here over the next weeks, but I thought I might share this - one canto of a much longer work.
When I read it it made me think of Arwen and her Aragorn - I wonder if other Tolkien loving friends agree?
The Mortal Lease
Yet for one rounded moment I will be
No more to you than what my lips may give,
And in the circle of your kisses live
As in some island of a storm-blown sea,
Where the cold surges of infinity
Upon the outward reefs unheeded grieve,
And the loud murmur of our blood shall weave
Primeval silences round you and me.
If in that moment we are all we are
We live enough. Let this for all requite.
Do I not know, some winged things from far
Are borne along illimitable night
To dance their lives out in a single flight
Between the moonrise and the setting star?
Edith Wharton.
Unrelated to the weather, I have been reading "Bliss Like This", a collection of five centuries of love poetry written by women. There are some wonderful poems in it - you may find another one or two cropping up here over the next weeks, but I thought I might share this - one canto of a much longer work.
When I read it it made me think of Arwen and her Aragorn - I wonder if other Tolkien loving friends agree?
The Mortal Lease
Yet for one rounded moment I will be
No more to you than what my lips may give,
And in the circle of your kisses live
As in some island of a storm-blown sea,
Where the cold surges of infinity
Upon the outward reefs unheeded grieve,
And the loud murmur of our blood shall weave
Primeval silences round you and me.
If in that moment we are all we are
We live enough. Let this for all requite.
Do I not know, some winged things from far
Are borne along illimitable night
To dance their lives out in a single flight
Between the moonrise and the setting star?
Edith Wharton.
