life

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Fish

Once a fish,
stressed by the surging seas,
took it upon herself
to flee to the depths.

She turned her head earthwards
and flashed her silken fins
toward the diminishing light
where unfamiliar things
hovered in the gloom.

Weak in the current
she drifted to a rocky place
where danger dwelt.
Bigger creatures with wide mouths
searched for the small fry.

She lingered in the shelter
of that hard face and

snap

before she knew it
she was gone.

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Old Poser

My young self could do backbends, and yes, walkovers, splits, could comfortably sit in lotus position (without knowing what it was), and as a party piece, could walk across the room on my knees whilst in said lotus position (I’m talking very young here….!!).

Yeah, no, can’t do any of that now.

I’ve been practising yoga formally, on and off, for about thirty years. I always thought that the more I practiced the more flexible I’d become, which is true up to a point. The problem is, I wasn’t taking the ageing process into account.  I’m in my seventies now and have found that, with the best will in the world, my knees just won’t accommodate lotus anymore. Oh yes, I can get into half lotus, but the other half eludes me.  My back won’t bend like it used to. I can just about do bow pose, but its not pretty (I might be kidding myself here, tbh I haven’t tried it lately!) .

Of course, the other thing about ageing is that you are supposed to get wiser.

Wisdom is another thing that eludes me. But what I have learnt through my practice, and now accept, is that its ok not to be as bendy as the next person, or even be as bendy as I used to be.

Keeping practicing does not necessarily make me super flexible, strong, and balanced, but it does (and this is a very big does) keep me more flexible, strong and balanced than I would be if I didn’t practice.  Worrying about that elusive posture won’t make me achieve it, but working towards the best posture this old body can achieve is in itself the reward. Each time I forward bend and find I can still easily place my palms on the floor I am reminded of how many people of my age who aren’t able to do that, and I feel like a ten year old again when I do manage to get up into headstand.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that yoga has given me a positive frame of mind, making me proud of what I can achieve, instead of worrying about what I can’t, or regretting how I’ve changed.  It is a life lesson I can carry through all aspects of my life too.

I see all those Instagram pictures of flexible folk in incredible poses, arm balances, legs above their heads, and all the rest, and I admire them, I really do, but I’m happy to leave that practice to them, and just be grateful that yoga improves my health and wellbeing in ways I could never have imagined when I was nine years old and walking on my knees in lotus.

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Rocky

Following on from the poem that I posted yesterday, I just wanted to share a few more pics of the fabulous geology at Dunraven Bay (also called Southerndown Beach), in South Wales. They tell me that the cliffs were formed from the Carboniferous period which is some 350 million years ago through to the Liassic period, 180 million years ago… blimey, they’re older than me! (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southerndown_Coast for more…)

The bay is not all about the rocks though, there are lovely walks along the cliffs, and the remains of a walled garden (which you can learn about here).

It is one of my very favourite places to be….. ooh and on top of all that, there is an ice cream booth….. Yay!

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Winter Beach

Shall we go to the edge of the land?
Have the wind slap at us,
the spray salt our faces,
and the sea freeze our feet?

We’ll get wet rumps
from perching on damp rocks
while we peer in pools
and watch shelled creatures
who dwell there in their silence.

We can shout and scream
And no one will hear us
above the sound
of the angry surf.

We can run on the sand
with the freedom of bare soles
then drink lukewarm tea
from a flask
as we watch the sea
eat the sun.

*Photograph – Dunraven Beach, Wales, 1st February, 2025

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Today I will Write

Today I will write.
I will not believe housework
is more urgent.
I will ignore the ironing.

I will not notice the birds
in the garden searching for food
in the sun.
I will not stop to eat.
I will be focussed on my craft.

I will not remember
that I have forgotten
to water the plants.
I will not remember
that I need to pay that bill. Today.

I will not feel uncomfortable,
Frumpy,
Hot, or cold,
and need to change my clothes.
Nor will I waste my time
inspecting the mirror
to try and find a mature pensmith.
(or waste even more time
attempting to tame the old woman’s hair).

Today I will be inspired.
Today I will be focussed.
Today I will write.

But first
I need a cup of tea.

And maybe some cake.

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Cast

On Saturday it was drama,
reciting lines and finding the right place
to stand and say our piece.

We talked about the context.
He with his historian’s eye
and me thinking of the costume,

the intrigues of make-up;
the tragicomedy of it;
the confined stage of it.

He spoke of the plot
as if it were simple,
as if there were no other scenes;

no second or third acts;
no love trysts or histrionics;
no heroes or villains,

while I wept copious
onion tears
as all good actors do.

Yes, it was just a rehearsal.
But I’m sorry to say,
that play is all but done.

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Homing

When he bought the first birds
home, and left them gently cooing
in a cage in our living room
mum was livid –
‘better not make a mess on my carpet’

He held one, passive in his hefty hands,
smoothing down the feathers
with his thumb. He passed it to me like a prize.
It was light and soft as sponge cake.

He cut up a cupboard to make a loft.
Replacing the roses in the garden.
Painted dove in that grey town,
‘It stood out like a tanner in a sweeps ear’ole’,
as dad would say.

We ferried the birds to their palatial home,
where the sun pearled their feathers,
and through the grill
they could watch the sky
and hear the taunts of the thieving sparrows.

Our fleet grew,
and on Saturdays they raced and flew
for miles, and almost always
found their way home because
of my determined rattle of a tin of grain.

I would watch the flock
circle as they spied their palace
between the dull bricks of London.
Dad won rosettes, well, his pigeons did.
Displayed them on the living room wall.

Mum complained about them
gathering dust. More often I had her to myself
and we snuggled on the sofa watching
Corrie on the telly before bed.

While at the pigeon club in the pub
Dad spent the evening getting drunk
and softly cooing at the barmaid,
holding the bird in his hefty hands.

Before long, those homing pigeons were gone.

And so was dad.