Trump to Kim (in one of his signature stream of consciousness speeches in Hunstville on Friday night) Little Rocket Man
Kim to Trump ‘mentally deranged dotard”
Meanwhile Tamsyn dies, Richard deteriorates. Huricans wreck lives and livings. The last letter of Tamsyn stays with me all day. I write up my notes from when I last saw her., leading the Hooker trail in Halesworth, days before being admitted to hospital for what was hoped to be an operation giving her 5 good more years. It was 5 more weeks. She did not hang around, as Michael said, having done was she needed to do.
Rohingya villages in Myanmar set alight, families flee to Bangaladesh and talk of ethic cleansing is mumbled, but the west is fundamentally not interested, as it is too occupied with it’s closer to home refugees.
Tamsyns Funeral Reception at the Cut
Naomie read these words of Thomas Lux
The basic metaphor is good: blend dead,
redolent things – dried blood,
steamed bone meal, dried hoof and horn
meal, slag, dolomite,
bat guano – into the dirt,
wait; live things will emerge.
In between, of course, you insert a seed.
So fragile, at first – I examine rows
of lettuce seedlings with a reading glass,
their green so barely green
they break your heart. The only
tools you need are Stone Age
but made of metal: I love
the shovel’s cut when you plunge
it in: the shiny, smooth cliff-face
and some worms (your garden’s pals!)
in the middle of their bodies,
their lives, divided…. A rake,
a hoe, peasant tools,
but mostly you pick, pull, pinch by hand,
the green stains and stinks clinging
to your fingertips.
Don’t read books about it,
or not many. Turn the dirt
and comb it smooth.
Plant what you like to eat.
Feed the birds – but not so much
that they get lazy –
and they will eat the bugs,
who should get their share,
but not one leaf of basil more.
It’s all a matter of spirit, balance,
common cruel sense: something dies,
something’s born, and, in the meantime,
you eat some salad.