Curveball

My inner grammar cop is itching to correct the title but curveball is a noun meaning curve a continuous line with a bend and no straight in it, derived from the Latin: curvare to bend or curvus crooked. Curveballs come from nowhere and you never ever see them coming. 

I wonder if I’ve been on this metaphoric baseball field of a life and just missed them; never ever saw their graceful arc .Perhaps I had my head in my hands; maybe I had my nose in too many books, maybe I’m just too busy at work – 7 am starts take their toll. Perhaps I was always ducking at the right time. But three curveballs in a week mean its time to take stock and prioritise.

The first curveball was a sprained wrist in circumstances where I was whizzing to get to somewhere and more haste meant less speed -I need to take timeout to breathe and watch the raindrops fall down the window. The second curveball I could anticipate: I’ve caught it, grasped it and practiced next to the bleachers for so long that I am overjoyed to be visiting Boston, my American family, and the Keisers while I present a topic at Harvard. It means I can revisit Orchard House, the House of the Seven Gables, and swim on the other side of the Atlantic. And i can’t quite believe this dream is on its way to being realised. It means enormous   amounts of writing, redrafting and revising;lots of reading Young Adult Literature  -American and UK, and digging out notebooks that have been stored for so long, I no longer really know wherethey’re  hiding.

The major aspect of being single  means that I am free to sleep next to my laptop, kindle and Ipad. Storm Desmond is raging — Why do they give storms such old fashioned names? And I am free to turn on the light, start reading or writing without worrying about grumpy rumbles, or deep, painful burdened sighs. It means I can have Professor Bear – my graduation Build-a-Bear trophy who is named after the character in Little Women – on the bed. It means that ‘The Girls’, Ginnie and Jessie can sleep next to me – my daughter and I have ‘shared access’. But these freedoms have a price tag.

The final metaphorical curveball left me with a headache and needing stitches. And I don’t know whatI’m  going to do with it other than write and think and pray. Pray hard. As a child,in my pink and purple five year old bedroom, in a family of adults, I used to believe that I would grow up and be given  answers. That i would always know what to do, when to do it and how to respond. I think its timeout for a blood injury.

I am grand-dog sitting today; the demon devil collie arrives at 9. Desmond has made it difficult for long doggie walks, poor Jack my aged Golden Retriever was blown over yesterday. So its going to be a looooooooooong day. So to offset Desmond, I offer some quieter poems written in snowbound 2010 – Ice while Driving to Duffryn was written there over New Year 2011.
                       Ice       

 

The Saviour has come

and gone

come

and gone

left

like dead dates in a rifled calendar

or seasons 

in time lapsed images from a thirties film

 

snow turns the village to ice

the moon questions this magic-less world

a scowl in the cloud allows starlight to pass

trees are still

bats hide and a barn owl screeches

scaring frozen field mice

 

 

each step compacts ice to

blue green white diamante

 

footsteps

 

touch cross circle tramp                 

intersect

where neighbours conversed —

six points merged —

compressed to sheets of ice

In the pure air

 

snow turns the village to ice

padded with snow and prayers

but voices are muffled

silence rings in the cut off phone

and the hum of the heating

 

and the saviour has come

and gone

come and gone

 

        

     the village waits

 
 
 

Driving to Duffryn

 

there’s no hint of fox

just black mist breathing droplets

compressing the car

shrinking in on itself

 

on the weak bridge at Penmaen Pool

the night throws rain like bullets

the mist switches on streetlights

off-on-off-off-on-off

at will

 

the passing farmhouses are dark

too far from sight

fog holds the surf

but cannot conceal the wind

that rolls it

so the earth still breathes

 

others come and go in the passing traffic

only the ravens are constant

sleeping ink like on winter branches

where hidden owls call
 

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