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                                     out side of the writing
                                     lodge

                                     received pronounciation
                                     disturbing the branches

                                     of the chestnut tree but
                                     not too many of the blades

                                     of grass; the events of life
                                     age most heads to twisting

                                     bark but some faces to
                                     sweet, combed wrinkle

 

as my Uncle used to say of the greens when the Sunday roast dinners came to land on the table, ‘these were in the ground an hour ago’; this piece was written this morning, outside Virginia Woolf’s writing lodge at Monk’s House, Rodmell, East Sussex, listening to someone read a section from ‘Mrs Dalloway’ to the collection of visitors, 160515; I publish it with verve because I am not sure it is ‘fine’ yet, but I enjoyed the visit

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

branches wormhole: on the raised patio reading Plath
breeze wormhole: after the storm
faces wormhole: hot summer / morning
life wormhole: prologue-ing
speech wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
writing wormhole: time proceeds

 

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