What are days for?
Philip Larkin
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
Commitments, illness and a general feeling of ennui have left this blog gathering dust since long before Christmas. My camera sulks in a bottom drawer, poetry is paucity, and another bout of lockdown has me hibernating. But Larkin is spot on: ‘where can we live but days‘? And the sun summoned my cabin-fevered body forth for a local walkabout – seeing beauty even in the least of picturesque landscapes of puddled muddy fields under a bright sky.
PoetryPix 
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