Jewels

Dear Diary,

She came with her cushion
to the cliffs. She sat
strained in the wind
in a pink old-fashioned hat.

Alice Oswald

What have you found today?

So far I have found sunshine even though it is still very cold outside and there is such a cruel and biting wind but I have tasted the sweetness that is warm friendship which is a blessing in itself. I even found it in the early hours when I logged on to Purplecoo - there are usually folk around to chat to on there when one is suffering from insomnia. Some members are from across the globe and I had a wee chat with a few online friends and even learned that New York was snow-covered and also heard some nice soothing music which was just what I needed.

Who was the writer who said friends are the jewels I keep inside my head? I heard these lines on the radio recently, it may have been on Poetry Please on dear old Radio 4. That radio station is like a true friend don’t you think? I can’t imagine life without it. As someone said to me recently they could live with out TV but they couldn’t cope without the radio. I agreed. Then this morning I heard by email from another dear friend and also from my sister and then I spoke to my daughter on the phone. Small things make such a difference.

But there is another find and it still only mid-morning! I am so pleased to have found this new poem. I borrowed the book from the library because I always check out all their new poetry acquisitions and I pounced on this one as Alice Oswald is one of my favourite poets. It is a beautiful book.

Weeds and Wild Flowers
Poems by Alice Oswald
Etchings by Jessica Greenman.

Thrift is one of my much-loved plants, I love its shade of dusky pink and its air of sweet delicacy but also admire its toughness and persistence; its habit of flourishing in the most dry and unpromising situations.


Thrift


Born by the sea.
Used to its no-hope moan.
Forty or thereabouts.
Lived on her own.

Heaved a small sigh.
With a handful of stone
to get started,
she saved up for the rain.

She came with her cushion
to the cliffs. She sat
strained in the wind
in a pink old-fashioned hat.

No prospect
but the plunge of the beach.
All except nodding,
no speech.

But she worked she worked
to the factory rhythm
of the sea’s boredom.
Its bouts of atheism.

And by the weekend
set up a stall
of paper flowers.
And sold them all.

So she made substance out of
lack of substance.
Hard of hearing,
She thrived on silence.

Alice Oswald

Do you ever read a poem or a piece of prose and the words strike such a cord that you think Oh I wish I had written that, do you ever feel that those words were within you somewhere and that someone else has somehow resurrected them? Could it be linked to the idea of there being a Universal Consciousness? I think it might. Do you even understand what I am trying to say, probably not as I am not explaining myself very well.

I am only half way through the book so there are sure to be more gems within it; the etchings are pretty too, I am fan of etchings.

That’s all so far, I shall return to you if more bounty is uncovered as the day passes.

I hope you find some pieces of treasure today, do let me know if you do.

Take care,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.