Nothing like a poppy from my daughter's garden, up close and personal. Another day (an unpleasantly warm one) spent fiddling and fixing and putting things away. I hope to get settled in here eventually, but have complicated doings with books, magazines and art supplies. Plus, trying to make things handier for S. who can't pick things up off the floor yet since his fall. He had a nice talk with his niece today. Her husband needs custom-made shoes for his injured feet which may cost $1000! It might as well be a million, since they don't have it. Thus life goes on, lots of fussing about all sorts of things, while in individaul houses people try to decide how to manage to exist in the world as it is. And the world doesn't care. I am having a little trouble working out where I want to go with this blogging. I'm rolling toward the half-year mark of writing every day, which seems to call for some sort of sober assessment.
I was quite thrilled to find this by a great painter, J. M. W. Turner
'Foam's Frail Power
the gay occident of saffron hue
In tenderest medium of distance blue
While the deep ocean heaves a smooth trance
Calm foamless far distance
The beauties and the wonder of the deep
While the blanchd spires of canvas creep
Upon the dark medium as village spires
Point as in foam where hope inspires
The blanched sand within the reach of tide
Glimers in lucid interval the washing pride
With little murmurs breaks along the shore
In treacherous smoothness scarcely whited o'r
With foam/s frail power undulating.
From The Oxford Book of the Sea; edited by Jonathan Raban, Oxford University Press, 1992, page 168.