“Good morning, we are from the Poetry Society, can we come in and tell you
about Hopkins’s sprung rhythm?”
“I’m not goofing off. It so happens that the mind paints before the brush!”
“I’m going to make good use of this holiday, re-balance my energies, feed my soul”
“There’s the inner-child workshop… Also packing and vaccinations for my trip
to the Tibetan monastry.”
“Write poetry, listen to Bach, floss daily, start each day with a meditation…
then a run…”
“How about you – What are you doing, Tisker?”
“Looking at the funny shapes in the clouds”
Stopping By Woods
On A Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.