chirping with excitement, the bigger, its breast blazing, silent
in light-winged earnest chase—when, out of nowhere
over the chimneys and the shivering front gardens,
flashes a sparrowhawk headlong, a light brown burn
scorching the air from which it simply plucks
like a ripe fruit the stopped robin, whose two or three
cheeps of terminal surprise twinkle in the silence
closing over the empty street when the birds have gone
about their business, and I began to understand
how a poem can happen: you have your eye on a small
elusive detail, pursuing its music, when a terrible truth
strikes and your heart cries out, being carried off.
The Eamon Grennan poem is one of the best descriptions of writing poetry that I've come across. It's a very visceral piece - when arriving at the line: 'and your heart cries out' - so too, does the reader's heart cry out.
The light had made its appearance in the kitchen one morning - already it's reaching in as far as the desk. I had wanted to take photographs of the light hitting the drying flowers, the book, the stone bowls, maybe.
But the subject is light.
The subject ended up being the way the light came through the slats of the old chair, the golden colour, the honeyed light. The way it illuminated the front drawers of the desk. It wasn't what I'd set out to capture, exactly. It was enough. More.
Meanwhile. Ordinary life.
I recently made this Thai quinoa salad, recipe here.
And lastly. Ace, who always manages to find the light, a strand or a beam, to sleep in. To point his nose toward. A skill to which I aspire.
Also, if you're on Facebook, you can see some of Rob's recent work (and 'Like' his page if you're interested) here.
Happy Friday to you all....wishing you all a calm and lovely weekend!