Moonstruck

Last night the rising moon was wonderful, hanging in the sky like a huge golden ball. How does it do that?! This morning at 7.40 it was still fantastic - a morning moon against a chilly blue sky as people emerged into the quiet streets. 

I found this image of the moon on a website about the planets, sadly, my camera wasn't up to the task of photographing it. I was tracking its progress on our way back from swimming. Another kilometer, in addition to  one we clocked up on Friday. 

Getting up at 6am was a struggle as usual, but going out into the world was surprisingly easy, despite the darkness and the layer of frost on the car. The UK is bitterly cold again after a milder week. Snow at the weekend, though not as much as last time. And today's swimming was very satisfying - 20 x 50m flashed by without any effort. How come? The longer distance seemed to give me the space to think, without all the constant turning. And sometimes 40 x 25m fits the bill just fine as well, so there you go.

January has been a productive month - I've written one essay, one short story and one poem, a great start to the year!

Hello February! I can hardly believe you're here already!

Digging My Way Out

I am snowed in, so to speak, writing a 6,000 word essay which must be completed and handed in by 4.30 on Monday. There is nothing else for it but to dig, dig, dig until my work is done.

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney

Go With The Snow

Snow

Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth

I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill

and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.

In those days we went out like that.

Even children went out like that.

Someone was crying hard at home again,

raging blizzard of sobs.

I dragged the sled by its rope,

which we normally did not do

when snow was coming down so hard,

pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name

as if we could be other people under the skin.

The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim

of the head where the hair starts coming out.

And it was a big one. It would come down and down

for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.

How are you doing back there? I shouted,

and he said Fine, I’m doing fine,

in the sunniest voice he could muster

and I think I should love him more today

for having used it.

At the top we turned and he slid down,

steering himself with the rope gripped in

his mittened hands. I stumbled behind

sinking deeply, shouting Ho! Look at him go!

as if we were having a good time.

Alone on the hill. That was the deepest

I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it

when I stare at paper or into silences

between human beings. The drifting

accumulation. A father goes months

without speaking to his son.

How there can be a place

so cold any movement saves you.

Ho! You bang your hands together,

stomp your feet.  The father could die!

The son! Before the weather changes.

Naomi Shihab Nye

from ‘Fuel’

Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was

Spawning snow and pink roses against it

Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:

World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,

Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion

A tangerine and spit the pips and feel

The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world

Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -

On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -

There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Louis MacNeice

Christmas Present

Tonight it's raining, the air temperature is rising and the snow will soon be gone if it doesn't freeze over again during the night. So maybe I will go for a lake swim on New Year's Day after all. Cold water doesn't seem as daunting if the air temperature is kinder. 

Here are my lovely swim-related Christmas presents (thank you - thank you!)

I'm looking forward to reading this full history of the Victoria Baths. 

And another treat - an analysis of my swimming style - including a video recording from four different angles - at Tri Central in Manchester. A coach will critique my stroke and offer tips for improvement. Perhaps I will be swimming with the elites in 2010!!

Midwinter Blues

Winter

When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare

I'll write about swimming again soon, but it's just too cold at the moment.