“Time — a few centuries here or there — means very little in the world of poems.” There is something reassuring about Mary Oliver’s words. Especially in an era of rapid change, there is comfort to be had in those things that move slowly. But oceans rise and mountains fall; nothing stays the same. Not even the way poetry is made.
AT THE END of last week we went to Scotland to visit P’s grandmother for the first time in months due to the lockdown. It was wonderful to see her again, as well as neighbours who popped in, but we all continued to keep two meters apart and wore masks to every shop we visited ...