Hi Arthur,
Great fun!
Hey, you've been just down the coast from me! And it can get windy, can't it
just!!!
I like the piece for lots of good reasons.
One thing I noticed in the piece, however, was the number of times you used
the word "wind." How else does one refer to the wind without using the word?
I don't know! It might be worth considering if any alternatives (or
alternative ways of hinting how windy it is) might work... I think words
like gale, storm, are a bit OTT and maybe this piece needs subtlety; but how
about that yorkshire-ism for gales, "a stiff breeze"?
I don't know if what I'm saying will work, it's just that (as I often do
with yours) I read it aloud straight after I'd glanced at it, and found
myself saying the word "wind" so many times...
The other ways you play with sound are great - the passing pluck of it, the
brotherly hug and bustle as it swuthers across the quivering grass - is
really delish!
Bob
>From: Arthur Seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: 199 steps up to Whitby Abbey
>Date: Mon, 12 Apr 2004 19:03:46 +0100
>
>199 steps up to Whitby Abbey
>
>The wind through the close streets of small pan-tiled cottages is cold and
>full of sharp rain. It is Easter and spring stretches through the daffodils
>but the moods of winter still linger, chilling the air.
>The steps rear and rise up the face of the west cliff. Age councils my
>heart
>as I contemplate the passage. Little by little, that'll do it, I promise
>myself.
>Our party of three splits into individual worlds of silent effort.
>I will not count them. Only step and rest, step and rest.
>Slow leakage of strength into the gradient and wind.
>Let others count. Scrawled on one step in stone on stone," 100". Ah! Over
>halfway.
>
>Gulls cup the wind under them
>waves pearl over the harbour walls
>Whitby embraces the sea.
>
>Step and rest, step and rest, the climb unfurls. My heart thuds patiently
>and breath is cold and hard. I am awaited by smiles and the buffet of wind.
>The lash of rain is sharp as hail on my face.
>The ruins dark and gloomy in the grey of the day.
>Clouds draw veils of rain over the sea.
>A sudden squall. Others cower under walls, avoid the thrust interrogations
>of the wind. Glowing in my triumph, years beaten, I stand broad to the wind
>and feel the passing pluck of it, the brotherly hug and bustle as it
>swuthers across the quivering grass.
>
>In the churchyard thrift trembles,
>litter swirls. A gull jubilates
>in shrill mockery of the day
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