Early this morning I let Dog outside, and the world had disappeared. Mist swirled like the dawn of time. Then the sun shimmered through, smiling at the deception. I lie out on the green sun-lounger, reading a book on symbolist drama. The washing line is in full use. Six buzzards ride thermals far above, wing feathers outstretched. As they spin away, a fleet of clouds arrives, neatly spaced. If Dog would stop dropping stones on me, I would be asleep. I wonder what I would dream of. There is a quote in the book that I re-read;
‘What we have to do is to bring poetry into the world in which the audience lives and to which it returns when it leaves the theatre; not to transport the audience into some imaginary world totally unlike its own, an unreal world in which poetry is tolerated.’ [TS Eliot, from Poetry and Drama, 1951]
I recognise the intention, although its possible that I live in an unreal world and my tolerance of poetry is actually unnatural.