tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7770759324001167662024-03-18T09:48:49.818+00:00 Of rainstorms and rooks and broken clocks Listen to your heart ... and you will know why I singRichard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-40458050509934053122020-11-28T12:07:00.002+00:002020-12-16T16:14:30.255+00:00Update on my life and writing<p> I am aware that my presence here has been less and less. This has partly been due to pressures of work. However, we (D and I) have also decided to change the directions and priorities of our lives. We wanted to live more deliberately (to borrow Thoreau), to live closer to the elements, to be aware of our lives and the significance of everything we do. We reset our compasses. We now live on a 58ft narrowboat called <i>Erica</i>. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITIWbcNTyHQ8GzeyE04pRs2LOyV5RctIzsaejj3HvZqk6hGBcWms6kTgoMwxmIWLfn8exNxq3hkcwnib8NA_lDWozKfq7L-jwkYJehXenvXtj583uYu7qaSfzLlJjJC6gSkftcVhg55hN/s2048/Erica+July.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITIWbcNTyHQ8GzeyE04pRs2LOyV5RctIzsaejj3HvZqk6hGBcWms6kTgoMwxmIWLfn8exNxq3hkcwnib8NA_lDWozKfq7L-jwkYJehXenvXtj583uYu7qaSfzLlJjJC6gSkftcVhg55hN/s320/Erica+July.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am writing still, but, as some of you will have known from the old MySpace days (even before Blogger!) that I have always toyed with audio - as evidence from the number of recorded items here. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am now focusing on an audio journal in the form of a podcast. This is allowing me to explore more deeply the relationship between sound and the written word. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you are interested in my life afloat you can listen to the podcast on: <a href="https://nosw.buzzsprout.com/" target="_blank"><i><b>Nighttime on Still Waters</b></i></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div id="buzzsprout-small-player-1378432-limit-20"></div><script charset="utf-8" src="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1378432.js?player=small&limit=20&container_id=buzzsprout-small-player-1378432-limit-20" type="text/javascript"></script>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-10035170185589406412020-05-04T18:47:00.001+01:002020-05-04T18:47:53.778+01:001 Year ago todayOver Ratley way it's raining; the clouds have given up to the north wind's bluster. Desi meets me at her gate, soft-nosed and excited-eyed. I tell her she is beautiful and it is lovely to see her. She sniffs my hand with warm breath, and wags her tail. She lets me rub her ears. They are soft as bats' wings. It is the closest thing she can do to pierce my blindness. Penny comes up and their noses brush, barely touching; ears relaxed, eyes averted. Small micro-signals, but it is all that is needed. Contentedly, they turn and trot away. Meanwhile, behind them, the lawn mower silently glides and then turns, following its own unseen, unheard syntax.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-58755298398263125202020-05-04T18:46:00.001+01:002020-05-04T18:46:44.519+01:005 Years ago todayLazy sunny morning under a cauldron sky. Two young rooks dunk a piece of dried bread in a puddle. First sighting of house martins that arrow knee high over the grass. Later we go down to wind the clock together. D, Penny and I walk through a snow globe of cherry blossom.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-60190182621815560292020-04-16T14:02:00.001+01:002020-04-16T14:02:23.258+01:00FLEDGLINGS (Redux)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>T</b></span>he second or maybe even third hatchings are taking place. The hedges and dark corners are alive with scruffy squawks. The older rooks play dodge and twist on the field followed by their insistent clamouring young. Our runner beans are regularly plundered and the garden now blooms with spinning, scratched CDs and ragged carrier bags that play upon the wind like corporate prayer flags. Everywhere is enthused with the untidy energy of youth...<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A</b></span>nd now here they come in a small gaggle down main street. A little knot of girls singing and shrieking; daring the world to look at them with that eggshell-thin, fragile, belligerence of adolescence. Dressed in little more than their parent's high blood pressure they trip the kerb to Oxhill Road and the sky is filled again with shrill laughter and foul language. Every shriek, every movement, calls fearfully out to an uncomprehending world in which they have found themselves flung. There are no easy Edens for us sons and daughters of Adam.<br />
<br />
"I HAVE ARRIVED. I AM HERE. AND THIS IS ME..." They seem to say.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">T</span></b>hey fall silent as they walk past and then collapse in snorts and giggles, their arms around each other's shoulders and necks. And I love them for it; I love them for their heroic "<i>barbaric yawp</i>" that signals their presence in this world... in this village... on this little inconsequential street on one summer's afternoon at the razored-edge of their childhoods... I'm drawn into their terrifying, wonderful, invigorating, intimidatingly indifferent worlds in which they find themselves.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>D</b></span>o the little, feathered scruff-balls that dart beneath the garden hedges also feel this? Lifting their voice to the blank, unyielding sky for the very first time. Is their piping call clear and sound? Or do they fear that no one will notice; that their voice is too cracked, that their song won't work? Do they fear that they too might be ultimately... unlovable?<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">T</span></b>hey turn the corner, by the maple that flames wine-red in autumn and pass out of sight.<br />
But their voices still ring among the flights of lazy bees.<br />
<br />
"THIS IS ME. I AM HERE AND I AM BEAUTIFUL..."<br />
<br />
...and if there is a slight shake and hesitation over the last word that turns it more into a question than a statement, let us pretend not to notice it.<br />
...For yes your voice is loud and it is clear<br />
And your song WORKS.<br />
<br />
So exalt in it and let it ring out across these streets<br />
For you are so very, very very beautiful...<br />
...but for none of the reasons you think...Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-14155116512661191322020-04-12T09:06:00.000+01:002020-04-12T09:06:22.255+01:00Easter Sunday Morning<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">... quite early, and the street was as still as the ghost of
sheep on the high hill. But dawn had broken. Oh Lord, how it had broken,
sending splinters of light into the victorious, ringing,
bird-carved, air. Even though snow still lay as white as sea foam on
Sunrising Hill and lay under each hedge, ribbed, like the bare, bleached bones
of ship-wrecked schooners, the sun had risen high; higher than the turbulent
rooks and higher than the breath that billowed in clouds of steam from my
ragged body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I walked abroad in that
slumbering village, and as alone as a blushing, rib-full, Adam, beneath a sky
of thrush egg blue; as blue as the cornflowers of summers past. Down Main
Street, past <em>Quo Vadis</em>. No curtains twitched, though the garden
hedges bristled with song. The occupant of each house slept warm and deep
under the soft hills and folds of their duveted wildernesses. Jackdaws
wheeled and laughed among the sleeping bones of the old oak on Fourways
Corner to see the sun beams of that beautiful morning trying to prise
their honeyed fingers through the neat, new shutters of the <em>Old Shop </em>and
its cymbal playing tin monkey in the window. A blackbird stood as proud as
your mother (should she see you now) in the middle of the road. The
sun warm on her back. She watched me pass with beetle eyes, a harmless
spirit in her eternal Eden of sun and ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Only two other souls were awake
that morning. The vicar who, with knitted brow, played with whirling
fingers the organ of the braying heating pipes in the
village church. Climbing down from one of the Jacobean, dark oak
pews, he fussed some dust into the morning air as the sun poured like Eucharist
wine through the great east window and stained the altar cloth crimson and blue
and, oh, such golds. Does he know that, when no one is looking, the faded
saints and the firemen in their smart blue serge climb down out of their
stained glass windows to ring out the hour on the faithful old tenor? Or
that, in the church tower (made of rough brick and cobwebs and
prayer), the stone angels play hide and seek with the umbrella-winged
bats, piping and squeaking, in the belfried dark? Or that, behind his
back, at every Pentecost, the yews in the churchyard burst into flame and that
tongues of fire dance upon every shaggy branch?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">The other is the runner who
outruns the dawn, red faced and breathing out dragon's breath, down past the
village hall (built in 1929), newly painted, and then past the Post Office,
bursting with wool and flowers and unlicked stamps, and on past the shuttered
tearoom. But not even he can outrun my nose in this impudent north-easterly
wind that has been sharpened by the claws of polar bears, and the clash of
icebergs, and carries down these whistling streets the sound of Saami bells,
and shamanic gongs and the deep green waters where the blue whales sing. Past
the Peacock, smelling of booze and laughter and last night's fires. Down
Saddledon Street to blow on my fingers and breathe in the sweet smell of the
cattle barn on the frigid air. The old dog at Herbert's Farm snuffles where
foxes loped, loose-limbed and laughing, under the frosted thatch and snow and
dreamt of the days he ran wild and free over Orchard Hill. A woodpecker drummed
out his exuberant life among the sighing trees. The morning whistled
and trilled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">As I returned home, the Keeper
of the park gates opened his front door, stood in his front garden
and roared out his approval of the triumph of that morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-10499089224155937772020-02-23T08:42:00.001+00:002020-02-23T08:42:03.957+00:00Roman RoadTyres hiss in the grey rain. Beside the arrowing Roman road the old oak stands; hag like and wild haired. Jumbled rafts of twigs clutter their clawing limbs. Beside each nest a rook stands guard, looking out into the rain at time passing. And then I am gone.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-49331200459831084272020-02-16T13:38:00.002+00:002020-02-16T13:38:28.854+00:00Storm over Tysoe<div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The storm was preceded by Wedgewood blue skies and the goats' hair of cirrus clouds. Then the barometer fell and it arrived. It came, at first, puppy-playful and boisterous, desert-warmed and seeded with rain, tumbling and whipping over Windmill Hill from down Winderton way. The windmill's sails flexed and clanked; straining to once more and fly with the wind, to break free and spin until the sparks flew and smoke billowed feeding the wind with a devil's fire.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The larches cresting Sunrising hill roar like breakers on Chesil beach. Their trunks creaking like clippers off Cape Horn. Penny and I stand on this frozen wave of rain-rattled escarpment and listen to the wild thunder of treesong. Penny hunches. She is not fond of this weather.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Below, the church stands on its little island. The rivers and tidal creaks of houses flowing around it. Even today, its profile exudes a sense of warmth and timeless solidity. Older storms have raged and fiercer Gods have been worshipped here in the past. When the world was younger did not the God of Golgotha ride upon the Canaanite storms and make the wilderness of the Israelites twist and writhe?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now fences are torn and sheds upturned. The elm, across the road, scatters its gnarled finger-bones on the pavement. Even the rooks are grounded. On the lower road, they hang piratical to the thrashing Jolly Roger branches. Crow's nest calamities lie strewn jetsam upon the ground. Earlier I had watched a pair of jackdaws carelessly flung like heraldic emblems upon the perilous sky. Tomorrow they will be back for beak-fulls of the elm's discarded debris to rebuild lost nests.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A blackbird surfs a branch with a quizzical eye; its beak yellowing with the season's turn and the pulse of life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The little oak that stands beside Winnie's gate still holds on to its crisp brown leaves. The wind worries them; hanging there like thrown toffee wrappers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Penny blinks the rain from her lashes and we contemplate the sheep. They continue to graze unconcerned by the ripping squalls. So we splash home with the wind at our backs to a packet of ginger biscuits and a discussion on the wetness of wet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-3907357673396161482020-02-08T16:35:00.001+00:002020-02-08T16:35:33.608+00:00Blue and Green<span style="font-size: 16px;">For the first day in almost a week the skies are calm, the trees still; just a gentle breeze ruffling the branches of the conifers. The clouds that rode the back of the blustery south winds have gone and the sky is as blue as blue, as blue as the blues in childrens' books. I watched a magpie fly overhead. There was a large twig in its beak. I love the silhouette of birds carrying twigs, quietly busy about their task; full of hope; excited about tomorrow... Little flames of crocuses burst among the emerald grass of the village green.</span>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-81416298724698410602020-01-18T08:28:00.001+00:002020-01-18T08:28:40.737+00:00Quick silver moon<span style="font-size: 16px;">Quick silver moon ghosting through a glistening night. </span><div><span style="font-size: 16px;">Caught among the branches of the ash tree where the jackdaws call.</span></div>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-34814428849515752862020-01-10T16:39:00.001+00:002020-01-10T16:39:41.034+00:00FenlandDriving up to Norfolk, through the brooding fen country, the heavy sky hung so low that it seemed to brush the tops of the rushes and the wind-blown reeds. The ploughed fields were bare and long fingers of steel coloured puddles pooled the rusty soil. Then a rook alighted by the side of the road. Wings outstretched, toying with the raging air, its feet touched the earth with such delicate precision. The landscape was so heavy it felt as if it would suck you in; enmired forever in mud and iron hard skies - but the rook brought lightness to that place, deftly lifting off from the cloying ground as we sped past and, in doing so, it transformed the world... Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-43133585587399217332019-12-16T10:28:00.000+00:002019-12-16T10:28:24.866+00:00Watery skies<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The wind blows ragged over Windmill Hill </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> and the rain sweeps across the nut-brown hedges. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The village pavements glisten and shine with puddles of steel grey. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Penny lies curled asleep in her basket. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">She doesn't know that on days like these... </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> she can walk on the jackdaws' watery skies...</span>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-91532389670574502492019-11-24T18:26:00.000+00:002019-11-25T10:01:48.427+00:00NOVEMBER Moon<br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">November moon sailing across November skies.</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">My breath is silver fire</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">while my fingers burn</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Deep inside my pockets. </span><br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">The rooks are no longer visible </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Among the tangled branches.</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">So I follow the stars homeward,</span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Always tracking slightly westwards.</span></div>
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<br />Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-30110839472599827572019-10-26T12:01:00.001+01:002019-10-26T14:04:02.783+01:00Today I Held Back Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The moment each year when we move from summer time to winter time is one of those occasions that make us more acutely aware of the concept of time. During the time when I was the church clockwinder these times seemed to be filled with special import and I looked upon them with something of an air of excitement and a strange sense of responsibility.</div>
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In some ways the transitions from summer and winter times emphasise the arbitrary nature of time; a construct that we humans impose upon our lives and worlds. Something that can be changed and altered at will. And yet there is also a deeper sense, something that lies underneath our attempts to regulate and contain. The physicality of 'holding back time', by stopping the clock for one hour (much the easiest way to reset time) offered a wonderful window into this experience. Watching from the tower over the sleeping village living through an hour which didn't exist... or did it? </div>
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This is something I wrote about this experience in 2015.</div>
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The accompanying photographs were taken from the church tower in 2013 and give a view of the village before the recent phases of development were taking place. </div>
<br>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-8475371943830251922019-10-16T13:18:00.000+01:002019-10-16T13:18:09.522+01:00Walking Back Home from Nineveh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lilian Hopkins was our village postmistress at Tysoe. Her sudden death on 21st September 2019 came as a shock to us all. She was a truly wonderful person who was, in so many ways, the hub of village life. She seemed to know everyone by name and there was always an unhurried smile and a greeting to all.<br>
We will all miss her and we all have our memories of her. This one is mine.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizbmodc-TEk3GF-Kzv8s4dSs5562MfVQZmcE9NRcQwdqxFBlncsGR6OEo4vc_1Ho7wHYorGBb8R00HgGjKDcXhlTbLzvouk6pK8vaypeDKqiOqkLF_W0U0NXyRtx-YN6xRxx5Kdjl7L3n/s1600/mypatch16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="1012" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgizbmodc-TEk3GF-Kzv8s4dSs5562MfVQZmcE9NRcQwdqxFBlncsGR6OEo4vc_1Ho7wHYorGBb8R00HgGjKDcXhlTbLzvouk6pK8vaypeDKqiOqkLF_W0U0NXyRtx-YN6xRxx5Kdjl7L3n/s320/mypatch16.jpg" width="320"></a></div>
<br>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-25592757203281938842019-09-29T14:56:00.001+01:002019-09-29T18:49:00.063+01:0029th September 2019<p dir="ltr">The season is on the turn. <u>Watching</u> the clouds drag their heels over windmill hill under a crow-scalded sky. There is something cathartic and affirming about walking unprotected in the rain. The coolness of a warm wind on wet skin, as if the sky has been sucking menthol pastilles.</p>
Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-15154269445971400592019-09-01T13:07:00.001+01:002019-09-01T13:07:16.560+01:00Climbing haphazard-like to heaven: The Last Winding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After 139 years, on 19th May 2015 the turret clock of St Mary's Tysoe was wound for the last time by hand. This is a reflective record of that last winding using images and video taken at the time. </span><br />
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Words by Richard Goode (2019) Images by Donna and Richard Goode (2013 & 2015)</span>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-9019247900974984372019-03-13T17:29:00.002+00:002019-03-13T17:30:14.934+00:0013th March 2019<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="b6hjh" data-offset-key="8lbts-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="8lbts-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Today has been filled with the kind of skies in which rook exalt, throwing ragged silhouettes upon the wind. Ecstatic heraldry. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fsm1m-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Breathe deep, if you can. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2pqh3-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Things are not all right. Nor will they be.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="2s9u7-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But there are signals of joy.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="c3fst-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Like a bush that burns in the wilderness.</span></div>
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Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-57456481218573375692018-04-19T15:56:00.001+01:002018-04-19T15:56:32.704+01:0019th April 2018Sunshine, hot and sticky, drips through the branches of leafless trees. The magnolia is out. Fleshy, sweet-scented hearts playing its yearly game of dare against the spring frosts. Forget-me-not blue above and below me. Intoxicated by the the wind-borne perfume of April's floral wine.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-28127063604481017982018-03-12T17:25:00.001+00:002018-03-12T17:25:54.278+00:0012th March 2018The rain keeps falling. Driving home along flooded roads. The daffodils by the front hedge are still tightly closed.<br />
This year: Falling rain and I cannot see the daffodils.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-71651530234401784972018-03-11T10:14:00.000+00:002018-03-11T10:14:18.462+00:0010th March 2018This time last year it felt like spring. The air was soft and heavy with warmth, although the nights were frosted with stars and ice. A blackbird filled that tree with music... and mum was still aliveRichard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-83123837835079567282018-03-01T16:08:00.004+00:002022-04-02T16:14:53.913+01:001st March 2018 (Edited 03.04.22)There is nothing remotely romantic about these driven, windblown, tiny needles of ice,<br />
<br />
but I cannot escape their beauty or the assurance of life they give.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-53340174686124277472018-02-14T14:22:00.003+00:002018-03-01T16:09:17.813+00:0014th February 2018<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The sky is so clear this morning - it is mirror smooth and razor bright. The larches on Sunrising cut the crisp dawn with their jet black crowns. In the hedge beside the window a blackbird tries out its spring song. The notes rise and flute among the branches. Even in its hesitancy it is perfect...</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">... but now? Now the rain slants against the landscape. Crystal lances. Sharp and ice-hot. And the rooks don't seem to notice.</span>Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-34266121659557359842018-02-12T16:05:00.003+00:002018-03-01T16:09:33.901+00:0012th February 2018Two magpies hooliganing in the middle of a salt-bleached road.<br />
<br />
White highway and sunlight among so many browns.<br />
<br />
For some reason it reminds me of the seaside dreams of childhood,<br />
<br />
that smelt of tar<br />
and starfished nets,<br />
and home.Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-11563681790346352942015-08-02T12:39:00.000+01:002015-08-02T16:24:16.164+01:00Geworfenheit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span> am tired of talk<br />
of monsters and words<br />
that taste of rusted chains <br />
and snare<br />
this beautiful,<br />
extraordinary world<br />
with a noose of syllables and syntax<br />
<br />
And of those who redefine<br />
my hope in words<br />
that I cannot recognise or understand...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hat strange creatures we are:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">W</span>e find ourselves flung among darkness and stars<br />
Adrift and alone on a spinning globe<br />
in an Eden we think we've lost.<br />
Is it not surprising that our dreams are of fire and light?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>nd we people our worlds with such gods and demons<br />
That we scarce can tell them apart<br />
or know which to worship<br />
and which to fear<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o we find patterns among our footprints<br />
and music in wind-blown trees<br />
and we begin to see significance in the lines of each palm<br />
and read our future in the shadow of our past<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>nd we mark our lives with cups of tea<br />
or things more insubstantial and find small<br />
words to reach across the empty space that separates us<br />
So that, for one small moment, the night erupts with the<br />
spun-gold light of our small suns.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'T</span>he gate at the end of the vicarage snicket was blocked by cows again this morning.'<br />
'I won't be surprised if a spot of rain will be coming our way.'<br />
'The clock is running a little fast today.'<br />
'I'll see you tomorrow then, God willing...<br />
... God willing'<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">O</span>ur globe still spins its path through all that silent darkness.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">C</span>ome, show me your god<br />
and I will show you<br />
your deepest fears.<br />
<br />Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-777075932400116766.post-6358508694724821132015-06-29T20:41:00.000+01:002015-06-30T19:36:22.768+01:00Still GROWS the ELDERThe summer heat has come, dustily settling across the fields and with it, the weighty, drowsiness that hums and buzzes in the head. The noontime hedges are as still as the night-time ones and the trees click and stretch beneath the sun. But the lethargy is short lived; the summer is still young, it hasn't yet shaken off the new-yeast of spring. The elder that the park-keeper laboured to cut back last month, explodes with green, lacy life, rearing in delight; defiantly laughing at the clean straight edges loved by sheers and humankind.<br />
<br />
Two days ago, in the rain, I came across a dead rook - a juvenile, black beaked, full size. It lay upon the grass; perfectly formed, its eyes closed, as if sleeping. The crack willows by the pond were its dripping pall. The jackdaws and rooks were silent. Its blackness seeped into the sodden ground in the way that night creeps across the field, grass blade by grass blade. Penny sniffed around its iridescent body. I felt an irrational sorrow swim round my veins. Will its presence here on earth be missed and its death be mourned? Will its family watch out for its return and feel the stab of its absence? Crows, we are told, can recognise humans who have caused them harm for a year or more after the initial offence. Fields where danger has been perceived are avoided and news of it spread around the entire colony which is then handed down generation by generation. For how long will this young rook be grieved?<br />
<br />
But today there is no body. There is no evidence of it at all on that grassy patch. The ground is bone dry as if even the trace of water falling from the lifeless feathers must be eradicated. Still grows the sweet smelling elder. For some, the world is not large enough to contain all this joy and sadness. Richard Goodehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06661201913648801812noreply@blogger.com14