1. Dum-dum-de-dum. Dum-dum de-de-dum.
2. Tink looking at herself in the mirror this morning. She looked pleased.
3. Now there are two men I see every morning other than my husband. They are runners and I see them in the same places at the same time.
4. I am soaked where Eric's rain coat is not covering me. My legs mainly. Doesn't bother me at all. I am taking in the green and the fresh air. If I get wet, big deal.
5. This is exactly the kind of day the Irish call a 'soft" day. Maybe the British do, too. I am not sure. But thinking of that reminds me of a poem I wrote that actually won a competition several years ago for Deus Loci, the Lawrence Durrell Journal. (Have you read anything by him? Great stuff.) Here's the poem:
The Cliffs
We walked along
the rugged west coast
of County Clare,
sometimes holding hands,
sometimes holding breath,
over the Cliffs of Moher.
With heather not in bloom
and yellow fourbush in,
we traveled to the far edge—
the ruin less visited—
to see the unpeopled view.
Mists rolled and covered
the ancient islands
of Aran and loomed over
the whispering sea sounds;
Water breaks; birds caw.
There, I stood on earth's ledge,
seized by an impulse
to plunge into this beauty.
For what more can
there be that this
perfection, this joy,
this soft Irish day?
