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Saturday, 11 August 2012


Winter sky

I grew up in these hills. I left home as a young adult imagining that if my hills were so beautiful, the rest of the world must also be. It wasn't the case, although there are many other glorious landscapes. But it's in the hills I feel most fully alive, where tree and river and sky meet on 
                                             varying planes and with changing moods.

This week I have a humorous poem for you, a poke at one of my foibles.

I was born for the silver spoon
(And the maid to polish the silver).
Not for me grinding labours of earning,
The sordid accounting of gain and expenditure,
Early-to-rising and sleep as necessity.

I was born to gaze at the moon ─
It's my pensive, poetical nature.
I won't sacrifice talent to theories of learning,
I'll do it my own way, I won't be confined to
The mill-run of  rules for the ordin'ry.

I was born to be loved and admired.
Wit, elegance, beauty and manners
Unite in me nat'rally, freely revealing
The best of my ancestors'
Qualities brought to their pinnacle, valued implicitly.
So. . .

Who can tell me what evil conspired
To keep my identity hidden?
I must work for a living, pay bills, cook the meals
Clean my house, keep a garden ─ a slave!
Is there ever a chance to be true to my destiny?

Until next week...
Claire Belberg

1 comment:

  1. I can picture you with a cheeky smile on your face as I read this!
    Ann Newbery


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