Pigeon

I thought about using a title such as Sun, Sea, Sand and Samphire, but as there is no sea, no sand and very little sun, it seemed cynical and unfair. To be honest, apart from a rumination on why we eat samphire (salty, bitter and woody are three of the kinder words I would use) there wouldn’t be much about samphire either. I once ate foraged samphire while I was wild camping (or ate samphire while I was camping, if you remove the 21st century vocabulary, which tends to over-complicate quite simple things).  I had no kitchen facilities and didn’t wash it well, so you can add gritty to my lexicon of samphire stories. In other words I eat it when it is free or a couple of times a year when I feel I should add some variety to our lives.

Yesterday was (First World) Hell. having been ill and managed my time badly, I struggled to make seven of my nine planned submissions. Oh, the struggles of a poet. It’s not a very artistic way to go about my art, but if I didn’t impose targets I’d probably be writing about writer’s block instead. It’s all about regular practice, and the phenomenon where having ideas brings out new ideas. One editor actually used the word “brilliant” about one of my submissions a few months ago. Another used the word “greetings card” a few months before that, just to preserve a sense of balance. However, I do feel that regular writing is the key to success, and setting targets makes me write poetry. Left to myself I would just write about coins, medallions and history. And civil servants, technology and the disappointing nature of my life compared to my dreams and the projections of 1960s sci-fi programmes.

Greylag Goose Arnot Hill Park Arnold

Note the addition of (First World) above. I am well-fed, not in danger of being bombed and can can walk down the street (as can my neighbours) without fear of being picked up by masked bounty hunters and sent “home” due to a minor mistake in my paperwork. My children had access to food and healthcare and grew up in a world largely free from violence. I’m actually beginning to feel a little guilty about how easy my life is compared to other people around the world.

When that mythical 22nd Century PHD student, to whom I often refer, starts to read my blog as part of his thesis on Grumpy Old Men of the Neo-Carolingian Period  I wonder what he will make of my concerns.  Of course, by that time he may actually be wearing furs to protect himself from a nuclear winter and making tools by chipping bits of flint as the wolves circle his camp. In that case I would be torn (assuming that I had mastered the art of time travel, which is unlikely, as I struggle with keeping track of keys and maintaining my keyboard in crumb-free condition) between being sad to see what a mess we had made of it, or happy at being right about the mess we had made of it of it.

Arnot Hill – Alder Tree