thoughts at 22.35

July seems to be the month for death to play its tunes - the last of my aunts; the mother of a close friend; all those unknown and yet so dearly-loved folk in London and Egypt and wherever else.

So, today, it was in a sense a relief to find a copy of Wordsworth's poems in Borders in Watford this afternoon. And my eyes fell on a page with the poem "We are seven" which seemed to capture the spirit of the undying link between family. Here's just an excerpt:

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea."

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

And over the weekend, I was struck by the effect of anxiety and the build-up of the knocks we all feel; hence the latest of my poems - in a sense just a fragment "How long can the tap drip".

Simon.