Poets on the mound

Lorraine off this morning to take Pat and Maureen to a celebration of life, for Pat's cousin Tony, who I met only once many years ago, in the Isle of Sheppy. They stayed overnight to make things easier.

So I had the day to myself. I went to the gym, then in the afternoon went to Lewes. Charlotte was having a birthday party for local poet pals. Twelve guests in all, including mutual pals Robin, SJB, Stephen Bone and Janet Sutherland. I'd never been to Charlotte's place before. I met a poet with purple hair lost like me, and we found our way to the door, was let in by Pete, Charlotte's husband, and climbed up a flight of stairs, then outside, up a zigzag path in the garden and then found ourselves on the top of a mound, overlooking all of Lewes and the downs beyond. A rather magical place that can only be accessed through Charlotte's house. It was there we all read a poem (except Robin) and had a poetic altogethery time.  

There was an immediate calamity however. There was one of those A frame pub benches SJB and I were sitting on. Another poet joined us, and as there was nothing on the other side,  the table tipped up and we found ourselves on our backs in the undergrowth. The open wine, beer, crips and peanuts etc pouring over us. I had a glass of beer in my hand, but the tipping process to so long I managed not to spill a drop. Dignity removed from this point, with wet summer trousers and so on a great time was had by all. I read the opening of Gordon Road again. Bitter enders were Charlotte, Robin, SJB and I and another poet whose name I'm afraid escapes me but was very nice. 

Home to an empty house and cheese on toast. And so to bed. 

Below Charlotte a few days before her birthday, in the warm late light. Looking like a poets recruiting poster.  And Charlotte reading, Stephen and Rachel also pictured.