Long-Legged Fly

Wrote thousands of words of my Skelton Yawngrave book. Ate homemade chicken soup and leftover apple pie with custard. Ventured into the Twitten with a tin of white paint and painted over last night's nearby graffiti.

A few calls, arranging to interview the MD of the Brighton Festival next week, for On Track magazine. Also a long and charming conversation with a French contact Mas put me in touch with, which should be another income stream. Also some fairly abusive texts from Carl and Mad dog drinking somewhere up North. Carl insisting on comparing me to Stephen Fry for reasons best known to himself.

But mainly it was about sitting quietly thinking and writing and drinking coffee. Put me in mind, rather grandly, of one of my all time favourite poems: W.B. Yeats Long-legged fly. And here it is for your delectation.

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her mind moves upon silence.

That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.