Friday 18 March 2022


This post's poem is based on a memory that popped into my head the other week. It was about one of those rare winds that blows sand from the desert to our island. 

certain days

the red wind from the Sahara

had blown a fine sand as far as Blackpool

depositing it all over the paintwork of the cars

parked in the street of our boarding house

I traced my finger in wonder

through the thin rust red layer

on car after car

entranced that I was making contact

with somewhere so impossibly distant

now I know that happened once in a while

back when the weather could be trusted

Its strange how some memories just appear in your head years after the fact with no apparent prompt, no obvious connection to now. They just are there. The poem is straight forward enough. I like the implication of the last line. 

Last Friday evening I went to a concert by Peter Edwards and it was excellent. Here he is live.

Until next time.

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