Here’s a poem from last month, when my recovery from Long Covid was getting me down. I’m pleased to report that things are much better now, with one full week behind me with no illness. Here’s hoping the tide has fully turned.
As my mind wasn’t firing on many cylinders, it might be a tough read. The first stanza is a little meditation, a prelude, on writing itself. The poem has nods to songsters, Bob Dylan and John Dowland…
But first two photos from a few yards from our new home in South Queensferry, ten miles from the centre of Edinburgh. The harr (sea fog) crept in overnight, and stayed all day. These were taken at 5pm, and complement the poem, connecting with my brain fog (a symptom of Covid) and contributing to a really awkward pun, for which I offer an apology up front!
Postscript: For you peasants who can’t read Latin, lachrimae antique novae refers to old and new tears, while lachrimae gementes verae refers to mourning tears being real, genuine. Both are titles of laments by the Renaissance composer, John Dowland.
The second stanza is a nod to Hamlet: I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams (if my memory serves Shakey well).
The miss-spelling of Corona in the penultimate line is all my own, while the occasional jump (20 20) is a quirk of my very lovely Remington Noiseless Portable (which isn’t noiseless!!).