The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Saturday, 23 March 2013
2 firsts and... whose counting?
our daughter had her forty-seventh birthday.
How could that be?
I am her father!
How old does that not make me feel? I,
who am what I have always been throughout
my adult life -- a steady forty(ish). How could
she dare be older than yours truly?
We celebrated at a local Chinese restaurant.
Recently opened, and so of unknown quality,
it proved a great success. Eight of us shared
a Banquet item from the menu.
(My first dalliance with what
has always seemed a little self-
indulgent in the past.)
Time to indulge the self, I thought. And did
so with a will.
Furthermore, there was the little matter of
the chopsticks. I have never wielded them
with serious intent before. Last night I did.
Now, putting this in context, I
am at the stage of having problems with
a knife and fork. I had none with the sticks.
Two firsts in a single evening then...
How's that for forty(ish)?
Not so much a poem, more like chopped-up prose... well, it was a heavy night.
The photograph shows the birthday girl. The old git trying to get rid of the paparazzi is her father.