Watching my daughter swim.

By the time I hear Go!

she is already gone,

into the water,

which closes around her,

welcomes her in.

Released, at last,

yards down her lane,

she is changed.

In her element, flowing,

so practised it seems effortless,

natural, both girl and seal,

a new creature, beyond me.

She makes her kick-turn,

nails it with precision, economy,

nothing wasted,

powers back,

trailing silver, spiralled air,

leaving me in her wake,

awestruck, wondering

how to stop time.

Writing

This is my first post. This blog will talk, sometimes meanderingly, about writing, especially poetry; about my work, poets I admire, raising questions about writing and art. I hope you find something useful here, if only to disagree with my stuff and sharpen your own thinking.

Writing, for me, Is work. For those of us under its spell, it’s necessary, fundamental, as joyous as it is tough. How often does a poem simply happen, spring from us fully formed? Some just don’t want to be here, others take work. Knowing when to put the pen down, leave things a while, coming back with new eyes, takes practice. Confidence.

I’m fortunate enough to have been given a writing home within the critical friendship of a small group of East Midlands poets. If you can find a group of sympathetic word addicts like yourself, do it, you won’t regret it. If you are open to it, your work, and theirs, will become stronger.

Ok, enough for blog #1. Happy writing.