After reading about William Carlos Williams recently and being reminded of his acclaimed modernist minimalist The Red Wheelbarrow, this poem, if that’s what it is at nearly three times as long, was triggered on a walk through Churchill Gardens, thanks to the mysterious ways of the unconscious mind.
Heaven knows why, but I thought I’d share it anyway!
Just in case this is not only pared-back left-brain poetry but also obscure, I am offering a few helpful footnotes. Whether they add anything to the impact of the poem is anybody’s guess.
- Storm Doris, in a year’s time, will probably be forgotten: it struck the UK on the 23rd February.
- tilted: probably to the 21st Century ear the faint echo of jousting in this word will be inaudible.
- litter: similarly, the connotations of this word with a stretcher for carrying the injured will also be too faint to catch.
- scab: there are other negative associations to the word than its obvious meaning, such as strikebreaker, an unpleasant person.
- prised: the lurking homophone ‘prized’ would have to be ironic.