MORE SUMMER SUN
It is properly hot in Bath today, a day of summery torpor. Better to be relaxing by the banks of a river. The river Wye for example….
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798 by William Wordsworth
Meanwhile up on higher ground, the soft mist is a cool balm for the face. There is a lovely sense of place in Daniel Crawshaw’s depiction of this Welsh mountainside, part of our Summer offering. Beaux Arts is a gallery where a person can come out of the heat and feel instantly soothed by the atmosphere within…
Being in the gallery for long hours and, meeting lots of people, especially in the summer, I sometimes think of this poem
Two lovers went to a museum and wandered therooms. He saw a painting and stood in front of it for too long. It was a few minutes before she realized he had gotten stuck. He was stuck looking at a painting. She stood next to him, looking at his face and then the face in the painting. What do you see? she asked. I don’t know, he said. He didn’t know. She was disappointed, then bored. He was looking at a face and she was looking at her watch. This is where everything changed. There was now a distance between them. He was looking at a face but it might as well have been a cabbage or a sugar beet. Perhaps it was something about yellow near pink. He didn’t know how to say it. Years later he still didn’t know how to say it, and she was gone. Richard Siken Two Lovers
In this summer heat, the below is what happens to most people who grew up going on holiday to Donegal.
And finally….You have to love The West Ccountry on a summer evening…..
Who made the world?Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean — the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down — who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? The Summery Day by Mary Oliver
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