ACCESS TO GRACE
Another day of rain. The cars careen and whisper, windows blacked in the midday darkness, melanoid tires spinning off silver flecks of water. If Annie Dillard is right that “beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them,” then a noontime rain is a test of our efforts at vision. “The least we can do,” Dillard commands, “is try to be there.”
I try to be there, but grace is a slippery fish.
BAMBOO OR JUST A BIT OF PROSE
‘Well, that was fun, but you can’t really write a poem about it can you?‘ And I knew what you meant. There was the bluntness of the sun and the dull brownness of the sand and some of the bamboo bowed over all untidy next to the rubbish tip which smelt pretty bad. And the long leaves of the bamboo were bent at odd angles and in your hand were the metal secateurs with their orange hand-grips. And, anyhow, we had argued all afternoon about the colour of some poles in the house which was crazy really since it was the first day after the rain.