Yesterday was a busy day for me, as things are now. Carolina, the Finds Officer came for supper - lasagne (Cooksed, not cooked), salad, and berries and ice-cream. What a lovely girl she is! I hope she will have a long stay as Finds Officer. And Judy, Maggie's daughter, and her husband dropped in. They have been visiting Maggie in hospital. It is not good, and they needed to have up to date contacts for the congregation elders, which I gave them. My days of visiting that Nursing Home every week - recently every other week - are now over.
Whatever happens, Maggie will not be returning there. And I must note that they took very good care of her while she was there. Very good.
The Captain and I shopped in the morning - and this afternoon I am catching up on my studies, and have just put a carrot cake in the oven, as the supply of cake for the Captain's packed lunches is running very low - and this time of year he sometimes needs extra cake for Butterfly Mark.
Today, for some reason, I remembered a line from a poem that Dirk Bogarde wrote when his friend Robin Fox (of the Fox theatrical dynasty) died. It contained this wonderful line "the soldier's unastonished stride". Could that poem be out there in cyberspace I wondered. As I couldn't remember the title, I put the line in. And here it is!
‘At Santa Monica
for Robin
‘We’ll go,’ you said,
and walk along
the beach
at Santa Monica.
and walk along
the beach
at Santa Monica.
We’d be, we swore,
English in an
Aliens Land,
and walk barefoot,
with hairy shins,
and trousers rolled
in grey
Pacific sand.
English in an
Aliens Land,
and walk barefoot,
with hairy shins,
and trousers rolled
in grey
Pacific sand.
‘It’s dank!’ you said,
‘and Dull to boot!’
the Pier
at Santa Monica.
‘and Dull to boot!’
the Pier
at Santa Monica.
November gulls
swung hard against
an opal sea.
Beer cans bobbed
with plastic cups
and rotting weed.
‘No Honey here!’ you said,
‘for tea.’
swung hard against
an opal sea.
Beer cans bobbed
with plastic cups
and rotting weed.
‘No Honey here!’ you said,
‘for tea.’
But ‘Fun!’ you said
to be alive and
laugh so much
at Santa Monica.
to be alive and
laugh so much
at Santa Monica.
Hands trailed
London shoes
past musseled rocks
wild blown hair.
Faces winter spumed:
and in my pocket,
(Why just mine?)
all our socks.
London shoes
past musseled rocks
wild blown hair.
Faces winter spumed:
and in my pocket,
(Why just mine?)
all our socks.
‘Let’s drive!’ you said
‘barefoot and wet
in Cadillacs’
from Santa Monica.
‘barefoot and wet
in Cadillacs’
from Santa Monica.
Left running
Dab-Chicks
fearful of the tide:
polluted molluscs
cups and cans:
and unsuspecting
Benjamins on Carmelina
could not hide!
Dab-Chicks
fearful of the tide:
polluted molluscs
cups and cans:
and unsuspecting
Benjamins on Carmelina
could not hide!
‘Hullo!’ you said
‘We’ve come to tea,
quite soaking wet’
from Santa Monica.
‘We’ve come to tea,
quite soaking wet’
from Santa Monica.
Gone now:
Your raven’s eye,
the dancing grin,
head held high
and soldier’s
unastonished stride.
To write of you
how could I begin?
Your raven’s eye,
the dancing grin,
head held high
and soldier’s
unastonished stride.
To write of you
how could I begin?
‘We’ll go,’ you said,
‘And walk along the
Beach.
At Santa Monica.
‘And walk along the
Beach.
At Santa Monica.
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