This is my second 'vrs' entitled post. Suggesting what about my current state of mind?
But let's look outwards:
The boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire was the most apparent it has ever appeared to me on the M62 last Friday as I trundled over to Brighouse Library. I left Lancaster in bright sunshine, the radio talking of the 9000 pink-foot geese at Pilling (amongst which were 2 barancle geese apparently - some sure and steady observation on that), the Trough of Bowland sharp and green. M6, M61 blue blue skies making the motorway almost seem a pleasant place to be.
As the M62 rolled out before me, the Pennines proud either side,
the horizon changed.
In my rear mirror I could see the sun, the blue. Through my windscreen the green hills had been swallowed. Oncoming traffic glared full headlights. The white rose at the road side a little bleary in the muted landscape.
I entered a new land. Debatable as to whether it was God's own - depending which god ruled it, and your perspective on that god. But it, inevitably, had its effect on me. Athough not in diminishing my wonder at what I was driving through: glints of reservoirs were still visible through the low cloud, dim outlines of cars wheeled over the blurry horizon to my left. Everything seemed slower because of the rubbing of edges. Perhaps there was more caution around.
On reflection this change in mood - which remained as the mist for the two days I was in Calderdale (while Lancashire held on to the sun) suited my approach to the job in hand: a reading, a couple of critiquing feedback sessions/a writing workshop for the Calderdale Readers and Writers Festival.
Poetry, in all these manifestations, is a slow, often intangible process for me. I can't know the effect or impact of it either on me or others immediately. I can't entirely understand all of it (even what I've written) in any one moment. It does glint through blurriness at times. It's the glinting that mkakes me want to unpack it, reread, or rewrite it. But my thinking is so often muffled. It is a sense of something that requires development; perhaps I operate more in sensations rather than intellect, and poetry offers the chance to wed the two. For me, talking is the bright sure sunshine in a blue sky; where definite lines of shadows fall. Silence, the shrouded misty world of my interior, is far less certain.
Good to have the two. I think the three engagements in Brighouse and Halifax enabled me to share (although not so consciously) this with the people I met and worked with. Writing, like the driving over the Pennines, entering a new world of a new lumination, that cannot be shaped to any expectation, is best left to each individual to explore.
Good, too, to arrive home at 6pm on the Saturday to a fabulous sunset over the Bay where a low tide silked turquoise in the strangely sharp light.