"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
Over at Somethingeveryday, my virtual residency ends with February. Who knew it would be such a brilliant opportunity? Every day I’ve had to write and post something new – and with one slight cheat, I did so. Sometimes it’s been raw and unfinished, sometimes I’ve been very pleased with how complete it feels – but at any rate, I now have thirty draft poems (I wrote a couple of extra ones over the past two days).
Today’s piece, then, was the last. I asked Facebook friends to tell me about the nicest thing a friend had done for them. They were moving and touching, but I couldn’t do justice to them…. instead, I ended up writing about my friend Shelley and I, on holiday in a place that dare not speak its name.
Pronounce it carefully; this is the Isle of Ulva.
The air is bossy, sharp with salt but clean as lichen.
You keep asking me, ‘is that a Golden Eagle?’
It’s a seagull. Yes, another. Put your glasses on.
We could have paddled over, but we took
that thimble of a ferry; glanced at the museum
of dead sheep and seaweed, then looked around
the landing place and felt the calm
which only comes of sitting by a clinker boat
beside a slipway. Outside the clapboard café
we shared a pint of cider, obediently wrote
our cards, ate prawns as big as handbags
and thimbled back to Mull. We spent the evenings
drinking whisky, and made quilts each afternoon.
Adventures small as stitches; broad as wings
as great slow birds passed over us, not needing to be seen.
SED now hands over to photographer Jo Kim, and I hope you’ll offer her the same support you did to me. Meanwhile, I’m still here and on my website so you can find out what I’m up to – including a new online course for Winning Words, starting in April. Roll up, roll up – or find me on Facebook.