Hopeful

After the monumental effort that was the needless reworking of one of the finest plays of the English language, plus being in the throes of another sleepover as I type I feel that brevity is the soul of wit.  For once.

Here is the news:

• Jason is still in agony. His eyes are mercifully on the mend. His neck doesn’t seem to be. He is short tempered, short of sleep and short on speech.
• Tallulah woke up with both eyes gummed together. She spent the day with me.
• Oscar was fine and went to nursery to participate in a Halloween party in which he yet again refused to get dressed up. I am unsure whether this is a sign of insecurity about his self image, or such a strong sense of self image he can’t imagine wanting to be anyone else. I hope it’s that.
• Matilda went to Brownies. There were no contretemps. It was the least stressful Brownies she has attended for aeons.  This is bound to mean trouble ahead.
• I am tired, stressed, and have belly ache.  The belly ache will be fine by tomorrow.  I will probably still be tired and stressed. I am glad I decided not to be a nurse when I grow up. It is rubbish.

I remain however, somewhat hopeful.

On which note, here is today’s poem.  It is by another lovely poet, one whose earlier work I prefer to his later stuff and who, when I was a teenager I considered one of the greatest ever poets, along with Sylvia Plath (au naturellement. I was a teenager for God’s sake).  I am now not sure about the claim to greatness.  But this remains one of the loveliest poems I have ever heard, and for me, a curiously upbeat choice.

The chap’s name is Brian Patten. He is mostly known now for his collections of work for children, but he still writes and performs for adults and there are still moments of wonder.

Hopeful

Alone, tired, exhausted even

by what had not yet happened,

passing a cemetery on the outskirts of London I saw

an angel dip its hand into a grave

and pull out a fistful of cherry-blossom

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