Alexander Averin

Thursday 29 March 2012

Friday 23 March 2012


Ts'ui Po (960-1279)


Was it the Spring Equinox which crept up
on me for once, unannounced, unnoticed?

Was it Ancestors wafting past me, their
scents attar of roses and tobacco?

Was it their heartfelt messages of Love
or was it simply Time, whose  power, like Sleep,
or Silence, is so underrated, its
healing balm freely given, so often
wasted; always the best thing, not just to
measure my days, but a cure for  malaise?

Was it a loved one's Healing Circle which
bade me fall to sleep so suddenly and
wake refreshed; did their sorcery move me
on from living in that hateful place called Limbo?

Was I so haunted by past pain and hurt
that the Spring's New Moon took me by surprise?
So softly she held me, nursing me gently,
close to her breast, tempting me to feed, to
hope, to believe and rise with her again.

Cait O’Connor

Sunday 18 March 2012

The Habit of Light

Many apologies for my long absence. I'm back, operation over and have been convalescing, few more weeks of that to go yet. I won't bore you (or myself) with  the details and the more negative aspects of the whole experience.  Onward and upward now.

Sadly we had to have dear Finn, our elderly lurcher put to sleep soon after my operation which was so very sad for me. We have buried him across the river, just inside the field under a willow tree.


RIP Finn, you are very much missed, The most handsome boy, gentle and loving with healing powers.

Rest in peace.

Before I go here is a poem I loved at first read in the Guardian today, it is written by Gillian Clarke, the National Poet of Wales who is one of my favourite poets.

And talking of Wales -  congratulations to the Welsh rugby team who have done us proud by winning the Grand Slam, they really are the best!

Here is the poem

The Habit of Light

In the early evening, she liked to switch on the lamps
in corners, on low tables, to show off her brass,
her polished furniture, her silver and glass.
At dawn she'd draw all the curtains back for a glimpse
of the cloud-lit sea. Her oak floors flickered
in an opulence of beeswax and light.
In the kitchen, saucepans danced their lids, the kettle purred
on the Aga, supper on its breath and the buttery melt
of a pie, and beyond the swimming glass of old windows,
in the deep perspective of the garden, a blackbird singing,
she'd come through the bean rows in tottering shoes,
her pinny full of strawberries, a lettuce, bringing
the palest potatoes in a colander, her red hair bright
with her habit of colour, her habit of light.

Gillian Clarke

• From Five Fields, published by Carcanet