Sunday, 4 December 2011


Reading Steinbeck in November’s late and
surprising sun, a single rose opening to crimson
on the bush from where the others were cut
to bloom indoors; and from the fecund touch of
his narrative also grows this palpable unknown -
I won’t have it a god’s - but nature’s unnatural threat
years after the grandeur and doom of his
writing about certain uncertainty in its poise.

Now how to strike a balance, convince you
my telling and feelings are as real, the true
thrall of the tale as much in that bud here in this
garden where I sit reading and drinking coffee,
domestic and eased and fortunate, but still to sense
and worry as well how something is growing awry.


  1. Superb. It captures Steinbeck so well.
    I don't know if you saw it, but I have just recorded a programme on Steinbeck. Not sure if it was on Sky Arts or the BBC, but it looks interesting.

  2. Keep missing the programme so will keep an eye out

  3. It's on the BBC. Am sure they'll repeat it soon.