Speaking too soon

"Thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent"

(William Blake)

Two thoughts: maybe summer hasn't already been and gone.

And, I think the BBC poetry season might be getting to me. It's ages since I sat down and read a load of poetry. I seem to remember reading a lot when I was last pregnant (and couldn't really move - probably I'd read all the novels within easy reach). The time before that was when I used to read a lot of French poetry at college in a transparent attempt to look smart, but cool and sexy.

(Just between us, I actually read it because Baudelaire wrote beautifully and his work was a perfect antidote to the mountains of dry legal cases I was supposed to read every day, and a de-stressing tool against the inevitability of doing rubbish essays because of not reading the mountains. With a round fuzz of blonde hair, an incomprehensible Geordie accent and odd taste in clothes, I don't think even Baudelaire could have saved me from terminal uncoolness!)

So, sunny weather, walk with kids and mam to this beach, then some work, some plant potting and an amiable hour of poetry. And then Mr B came back from London and the tone changed with the last episode of Ashes to Ashes. No more Gene Hunt :(