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.
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.