Sunday, January 31, 2010
BABY... ITS COLD OUTSIDE!
I love this version of the old standard from Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews of band, Catalonia. Yes it is cold outside and we live in a cold, draughty house. I like that... somehow its more cosy. There is an enormous fireplace in the living room that would take half a tree and a wheelbarrow of coal. The cleaning of the ashes is a chore at times, and the piano always has a half inch of dust on it, but hey Scout, our beloved cat and ruler of the roost, loves the heat... so are we going to deprive her? No double-glazing, so plenty of fresh air and no electric blankets, except for guests. Diving naked into a bed of crisp cold white cotton sheets... Geronimo!
This is my second draft of 'Is it Cold Outside?' It didn't really say what I meant it to say, so here goes again. Two images startled me yesterday morning. They were small but significant, and trying to capture them with words, the way a camera does is tricky... very tricky!
IS IT COLD OUTSIDE?
He convinces from the kitchen...
N... n... not!
Wrapping... softly... fawn scarf
Around strong, dependable neck,
I spot the worm of panic and disillusionment,
Rising from behind frog-mouthed helmet...
S... s... stop!
Fleshy lips kissed,
Misplaced gauntlet retrieved.
Past stooping snowdrops,
And attacked by hope,
Odin strides with shaky purpose,
Not feigned... at least.
Aurora's encore becomes duet...
'Promise of Spring' in the key of G.
No minor keys today.
Maureen Walsh 2010 ©
I don't know about this either. Perhaps leaving alone and re-visiting might be a good idea.
Unfortunately, fox-hunting today all around us. I am an animal lover and therefore dead against hunting. Whilst the 'sportsmen' all look rather splendid in their jodphurs, jackets and splashes of red, tearing an animal to pieces is not my idea of fun. However I do understand that fox-hunting plays a huge part in the rural culture of Ireland, and I respect that. I did have a 'run in' a few years ago though, with a spectator of this so-called sport, who wanted to park his four-wheel drive outside my house. I asked him, kindly, to remove his vehicle. He proceeded to get quite heated, telling me it wasn't my land! Having poured blood, sweat and tears into a home, through years that saw a mortgage interest rate of around 19%... let's just say I was not pleased! Eventually, and without having to recourse to four-letter expletives, amazingly, he left, defeated, with his 'mane-hood' between his legs. Fox-hunt days are like funerals in our house, mainly because we have seen at close hand, the misery and torture that is inflicted upon these beautiful creatures.
I hope fox-hunters everywhere, who are sitting sipping their hot toddies have little to brag about tonight as they sit warm and cosy by flaming fires... 'out-foxed' ... hopefully!