Waiting for Godot?

I am trying to keep myself occupied as we wait, wait, wait for lawyers to do their bit. It took a fair amount of pushing yesterday by me and our vendors to get the lady at the top of the chain in a position to exchange. With an hour of business left today, we still haven’t had the final call. We have a moving date but no exchange date. Madness.

Our hour’s exercise depending on when the next spot of rain is a lifesaver. Although limited to no use of the car, (an insurance glitch) we have several walks to do. The village, the dunes, the beach, the cart track, the old church ruins and even up to our new house, if we feel energetic enough.

Editing – well I am managing several pages most days with about 60 to do. Then I can send the book out to beta readers. It’s a different genre for me so I’m not sure how it will be received.

Reading – I loved Louise Doughty’s Platform 7, recommended at my bookclub zoom meeting. It successfully managed to cross several genres – ghost, thriller and modern fiction. Hugely imaginative and well observed, it is a book that will stay with me for a long time.

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. At last I had time to finish this book. To me, it should become a classic. The writing is exceptional, powerful, evocative and utterly emotional. Be careful not to buy the paperback which seems to be in Dutch.

Writing poetry. I am not a poet, never attempt rhymes, unless accidental, but walking in the snow inspired me to have a go.

A Jewelled Winter

Wellington boots scrunch through pristine powdered snow,

Where clouds of flighty linnets feast in waving grass.

Diamonds of ice stud the glistening, winding track.

Footprints of red deer, pheasant, hare and muntjac

Mingling last in cold moonlight, dancing, prancing.

No masks, no social distancing required.

A lone fieldfare, grey of wing, pecks ruby rosehips

Before flitting up to a cloud-free, sapphire sky,

Behind, a tempest, battleship grey awaits.

We face a mighty storm, jewels of biting hail

Splatter my jacket, transformed from turquoise to pearl.

Icy winds pluck at scarves. Heads down, our frosted feet

Crack on. The old lighthouse landmark disappears,

No ancient sweep of golden light to guide us home.

About Rosemary Noble

Writer, author, amateur historian and traveller
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