Last night we went to Stratford to see Cardenio, the lost play, possibly parts of which have been written by Shakespeare.
We had some xtra entertainment when the fireworks caused the fire alarm to go off, and we got to spend some time on the river bank in the summer sunset.
I’ve had to wait a little before I could see a play in Stratford and it’s finally happened 
I loved everything about the new Theatre, they’ve done some pretty great work. I even loved the new wine selection because they’re now charging £4 instead of £6 per glass And I didn’t even get a parking fine this time!
RSC has a poetry evening in a month, but I can’t go anywhere now.
In fact I’ve not been to Stratford since springtime. Friends are asking about organising the next trip to the Theatre, and I would usually book tickets for them with my membership, but this time i’m just working all around the clock.
Bummer.
“Sea-Fever”
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)
This used to be a nation of sailors, do they remember?
Another reprint from HERE.
CARPATHIA
Having rinsed off the soot and stink
of the Polish train,
having sung with the child.
Having eaten and laughed and wept,
had my vodka with apple juice,
my bread.
Having walked through the fields
at dusk, and into the forest
and back again–
meadows of buttercups,
thistles with bristling heads,
the first blue cornflowers of June.
Having opened my arms to the sky
falling back on itself
in my dizziness.
Having taken the small purple berries
that dropped from the wild bush
into my palm
–Siberian berries, like tiny plums–
put their sweet bitter inkiness
onto my tongue.
Having failed and failed at love.
Having gone anyway,
breath after breath.
Having trusted the world to be kind
and stood in the doorway
and listened for wolves
and heard my own dead in the high
grass whispering,
beloved, beloved, beloved.
