I'm in a writing phase at the moment, a poem about a woman who went to Italy in her youth but who has decided in her sixties to return to England. Thinking it through and making contacts with 'home', she realises that she belongs to neither country.
There is a personal note to this since (while far from being young) I'm contemplating a life in Italy. Even so, the poem is to be part of a set, looking at the attitudes and anxieties of a retired and ageing generation. The first, The Male Menopaws, has already been written and part of it has been published in the local U3A magazine.
The ivy? I've discussed it with my landlord, a good man I hasten to add, who says he will remove it once it starts to creep under the eaves of the house. At my less practical level, I thought it might find its way into one of my poems. William Cowper wrote that ivy "hides the ruin that it feeds upon" … a line which might be echoed in my own writing.
Yes! Looking at the picture I took this morning, I realise that my cleaning of the bathroom may need to be extended to its window!
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