February 14, 2005

• Thursday: NEW poems on LordPineapple ‘s site
  

  
  

   

  
  

  “Shotover Woods”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  On the edge of Shotover Woods on what was once the main road into Oxford, a dirt path full of water and mud.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  On Summer saturdays children dodge 4×4′s and dogs eat people’s picnics, but today,  the 12th of February, the place is quiet.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Down into the trees to see the wind creak their old dry bones, for it’s a strong wind today, the sort to send apples into worm’s mouths. This reminds me of West Wales except there is no beach near this muddy lane.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There is a sand pit for the kids, though not much else for them except hide and seek and nature lessons, yet kids love Shotover.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Alone, I just keep to the old road, the magic of beach and sand pits at present a thing of my past.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  In the spiky brambles and bracken copses, I can get lost in my heart as clouds dance in the blue skies. The trees are bare and showing old blackened bird-nests. There are very few flowers about, and up here, none. I bet Iffley woods is already celedined and cotsfooted.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But it is not what I perceive that matters, it’s how I write, write to stop this from being boring, for it’s only about a walk along an old dirt track through an ancient wood.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  A man on a race-horse.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I stopped writing when people walked past, not that I’ve ever been self-conscieness about writing in public. I’ve known writers who would rather forget their next mastepiece than get out their note-book on a crowded bus or woodland walk. Not I, no wonder I am considered an eccentric!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Plenty of wild bitds to make up for the lack of flora as I carry on jumping over the mud pools. Did write “rock pools” for I love rock-pools, the bladder-wrack and the jellyfish and the crabs and the little water-insects. Sadly, I need a child with me to look at them unless I act the mad professor and call things by mock latin names like “wow a threesarah clepities!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Walking down into Wheatley village for a drink and a bus home. A lot of cars now, so I’ll escape into the woods for a while, to see the holly-bushes and the moss on stones and the broken tree branches. The first shoots of harebells! The beauty is spoilt by a moron with an air rifle. Suppose one gets a lot of that in Texas, “Hey guys I just shot a bigfoot!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I can barely hear the traffic in the wind. There is something romantic about trees though god knows what!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Once again my childhood memories return via Matlock Moor and Cresswell Crags. Climbing tress with Ian Payne, chucking water-bombs at each other. Once Ian missed me and it landed on a man who actually got out a horse whip for us, Ian and I stayed up that tree for a hour before the fool gave up.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When I was a child there was a lot of hitting of kids. The only “no-no” was the hitting of a girl by a man, so I used to hide behind my sister who was in fact a lot worse than me. She used to say “touch me and I’m telling my dad, he’s a copper!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  What has that to do with this wood? Nothing. So it’s time to regain the road into the village. Off of the plateau, flowers like snowdrops crocuses and daisies start to appear. A seat! By a post box. I always remember the post box right outside our house in Boughton Cottage, Clowne. I used to put my sweet-papers in it, not through naughtiness but because I was told never to throw them onto the ground.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Had stopped writing, a pretty girl walked by, no more than twenty. Of course they no longer look at me, but I still look at them, trying not to show my hunger or appear sexist or frightening.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  A house called “Two Hoots” I love house names and as a child collected them. Names then were more important to me than people.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Went into “The Sun” PH for a pint of Hookies. The toilet-doors have pictures of a ram for the men and an ewe for the women. When I was there, the bar lady just stopped a small girl from going into the wrong toilet. It IS a little confusing, esp for someone with bad eyesight like me!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  That’s all for now. Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.
  

  
  

  Terry.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —–
  

  
  

  Terry Cuthbert.
  

  
  

  ——–

  
  

  P.s. It’s nine years now since I received a valentine’s card, and you say I must not call myself a loser.

  
  

   

  
  

  After my unsuccessful attempt to close this site down I am going to spend more time on it, and I have already wrote the next blog, prob to appear on Saturday, it is about some of the eccentric people that worked on our provincial weekly newspaper.

  
  

   

  
  

  Terry.

  
  

   

  
  

  ————–

  
  

   

  
  

  Plays on Three_Headed_Sarahs site
   

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