Choosing music after cataract surgery

What music for a summer Saturday

evening? A glass (or three) of gascon wine,

Garden now greener, brighter, more defined

Clarity.

Symphony? Too complex. Concerto? Too

adversarial. Romantic? But dark

shades, half tones suggesting loss, not gain.

Ambiguity

Solo voice? Yearning, seeking. I don’t need

high emotion, Just a sense of storm past

unusual in simple melodies of folk

hilarity.

Something structured. Joyous, predictable

Harmonic proof that music, optics, peace

Pattern deep order. Allegro. Baroque.

Vivaldi.

24/6/23

Written the day after my first cataract operation. It came to me as I was selecting a CD to play with our meal : something that echoed the new sharpness of vision emerging in the operated eye that was at the same time structured and calming.

Three sonnets at Port en Alls

To eastwards curve of coast fades into haze

Shape, colours swallowed in uncertainty

Of where land, sea, sky keep identity

Separate from each other. This dying day’s

Light seems mergent with growing dark that lays

Night on prospects of bright eternity

With loss of all in greyed infinity

And we can only long this sad moment stays.

But from the grey strikes point diamond light

Reflected from that other truth, the sun

Answer that life’s thin thread is not yet spun

Hope beyond darkness of the coming night

Dawn in the east will yet make all things right

Bright present proof of new life yet to come.

Night. Uneasy dark lies dull across the sea

Pressing down the weight of all men’s doubt.

All forms that make life sure the mist blots out

Though in day they merely point to mystery.

No air soft stirs the leaf of summer tree.

Only the endless tidal rise and fall

Sighs on sand. No mournful night birds call

Their plaintive news of when the dawn may be.

And then long miles away a lighthouse gleam

Man-made brief truth of hope against the dark

Enough to steer a course against the stream

Enough to show good men may make their mark

Proclaim bright day to come beyond the dream

To rise with courage skyward as the lark.

New morning and across the sweeping bay

What was lost in mist is now made plain.

The lines of cliff sea’s chaos still restrain

That men may wake and go about their day

Unafraid to labour, love and play.

In homes and fields warm summer comes again

Surety of harvest, soon ripening grain

Store ‘gainst winter in firm built barn will lay.

Last night’s fear now seems small but no less real

Those truths of empty death that all men dread

Lightless pathways we know are ours to tread

Though now our little lives seem strong as steel.

But – light has come. Whatever lies ahead

Cannot dismay those whose hope is not yet dead.

July 2016

The first was inspired by a prolonged flash of reflected light on the Lizard across Mounts Bay as all faded into haze. The third was an attempt to describe hope in the following morning’s sunlight, and then, some weeks later it seemed right to add a nocturne in the middle. Port en Alls is also known as Prussia Bay

The Embroidery

“Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point”

C. S. Lewis

Rainbow vibrant, scattering bright sunlight

Colours of cardinal virtues captured

Deft needles made design reality

Embroidered beauty of true humanity.

Green generosity, pure love’s deep red

White humility, self-control’s bright gold

Cerise gratitude, diligence is blue

Quiet brown patience awaiting all things new.

Unseen beneath gorgeous flare of colour

Grey canvas holds the many threads in place

No thought given by the admiring crowd

This fabric does not speak its name aloud.

But without it no virtue will stand test

Staunch courage gives its form to all the rest.

May 2024

Park Run

The lean lithe club runners for whom 5k

Is merely light relief on Saturday

The unfit overweight who simply just

Long to lose pounds because they know they must

The young, the old, the work-worn middle aged

School children who have all week been caged

First timers worrying “Will I get around?”

Regulars well knowing familiar ground

Sleek buggies powered by long limbed super mums

Dogs who secret think this is no real run.

We clap the volunteers and visitors

Who add to their collection this flat course.

“Let’s run’” The surge across to starting line.

“Hi there! Good luck! Run well! You’ll be just fine”

The countdown from three ends in a scuff

Eight hundred coloured trainers pounding off.

Legs stretching to their full potential length

(should training have improved their latent strength).

Adjustment jostle round the path side seat

The slow fall back, the fit are running fleet.

Across the narrow bridge the dense crowd thins

As now for some the serious run begins.

Others regret their all too fast a start

And briefly fear for their too flabby heart.

The back straight now, carefully avoiding those

Who walk contrary wise and seem to doze.

Through wooded glade. No slippery leaves

Excuse a pause to any whose chest heaves.

Then narrow path where some first feel a stitch

Others go wide, risk falling in a ditch.

And now lap two. The thundering herd

Sweep by fluorescent marshals who applaud

And then prepare, for in twelve minutes time

The swiftest will approach the finish line

While the rest, mere mortals, keep up the slog

Some run, some walk, some manage a slow jog.

So what? This is meant to be at least some fun

Summer Saturday warmed by morning sun

Though some now think that stopping’s best of all

Like ceasing to bang head against brick wall

Lap three. And now the faster overtake

Those slower souls who’ve not yet passed the lake.

They too are still giving it their best

Though moist of brow and sweaty under vest

Last time through woodland and the welcome turn

Homewards tired as legs, once just aching, burn.

Slight downhill gives last chance to quicken stride

A final burst of speed at least is tried

At last the funnel’s final fond embrace

Past the timer and we can slacken pace.

The plastic token is in order given

We stop, gasp and enter Park Run heaven.

Park Run is a great way to start a Saturday morning -i f it's a fine summer day ! My local one is in Lincoln: three times round the lake and through the woods. They always say it's not a race but you can't help wanting to achieve a new Personal Best (or - as I'll never be 15 years younger than now - at least a "Best this year")