At Midsummer

A piece from At the Orphans’ Door, revised this morning

I’m up so early in the morning these days. There’s a thuggery of rooks in the dead willow next door and while I offer them bountiful respect for their raucous, rebellious greeting to every day, I am going slowly mad with it, too. It’s not all down to the rooks, of course. I’m so busy I can hardly see my own shadow. Part of that is getting encant ready to launch in the next day or two — thanks to those of you who’ve expressed interest via email: you’ll get first pick of the places when it’s listed! There’ll be two groups — one in the morning, UK time, and one in the evening. That way, I think most timezones have some possibility of joining in. Places will be limited to 12 for each group, so do get in touch if you’d like to be on the advance list.

Enough of that. Here’s the poem:

The piece is from AT THE ORPHANS’ DOOR, but I reworked the ending a little in the early hours of this morning. I’m not 100% sure it’s right yet, but I’m pretty sure I’m getting clearer about what ‘better’ means, so that’s some kind of progress, I believe. Apologies to those who love the original, but rest assured that it’s safe and unharmed in an undisclosed location. Also, all my books are ⅓ off in the Feral Angels Press bookshop until probably about Tuesday.

I wish you all some extraordinary joy at the solstice; or at the very least, a little respite at the turning point of this strange and spindled existence. It’s also Fathers’ Day here in the UK, which I hope is a joyous thing if you are a father, or have a father to celebrate — I know it’s not so simple for many people, too, so I send love to you if that’s the case.

Whatever your day is and however life finds you, I wish you all the good things: strong rememberings of what’s important and alive in your bones, and the grace and power to rise up against those powers that keep us all from liberation.

From the moor-edge, with love

Tom