Unspeakable*

What a truly dreary day that's been. I don't know that it was raining when I got up, but by the time we were leaving the house for church it was falling relentlessly and went on doing so for the rest of the day. Mercifully when it's dark you can't see it. I was glad I'd put on my puffa coat for church; the dampness combined with the draughts make a formidable onslaught on what heating we have, especially when you sit, as I do, within range the The Gale from the Tower -  it exits through the organ pipes and ventilates the east end of the church so as to banish any virus mad enough to stray there.

My bestie was away today, with the rather shameful result that, with no-one else to talk to over coffee when we got home, we both found ourselves falling asleep in a very elderly fashion. We stirred ourselves to ring #1 son who'd been feeling poorly; he's now tested Covid positive and is feeling even worse. His brother had it last week. Is it only a matter of time before we succumb? Not because we've seen either family, just the law of averages?

Crazily, we went out for a two-mile walk in the rain later. By this time the wind had gone into the north and it battered said rain into our faces. Our mood was lifted, however, by meeting someone whom both of us regard as a bit of a saint - he stopped his car to thank us for the music this morning. People who are generous with their kindness and praise while carrying loads that would crush someone like me are precious in any community.

My photo is of the current clutter on my desk - the fuel behind my current run of poetry workshops on zoom. I love the balance between "Collected Poems" and "Uncollected Poems", as well as the fact that at least one of the books is a school anthology most likely to be found in the bookshelves of a teacher. It also struck me how modern the little blue book on the top felt when I got it for my first year studying English at Uni - or was it in S6 at school? Whichever year is the one, it brought home to me that until then we'd studied nothing that was written after 1916 - not even Wilfred Owen. In fact, I first encountered Owen's poetry in the programme for a very early performance in Glasgow of Britten's War Requiem when I was 18. I was bowled over by the music during the performance, but the poetry captivated me when I read it at home that night. And as for the Metaphysical Poets ... I barely understood a word of either the poetry or the lectures I attended; I didn't get it until the evening when I cycled out to visit a colleague in Dunoon one evening and she gave me a tutorial and a glass of wine. I daresay I wobbled back down the glen homeward, but I was enlightened.

I believe Spaffer is coming north this week. I wonder if he'll actually show himself to any ordinary Scots ...

*The title refers both to the weather and to my conviction that poetry actually conveys the unspeakable directly to the heart.