Lots to fit in today. We thought we’d tell you a bit about today’s opera excursion and then move on to the tea, and end with a poem about music.
But then we got home and the power had gone out, so of course palaver ensued. Briefly we wondered if we were off the blogging hook, because no power meant no internet, and the little map spouting details over mobile data was pessimistically reinstating light sometime after blogging hour.
But light is currently over all. Or at least over our kitchen. We had the tv cuddle. Dachshunds slept through the whole thing, naturally. Including the classic movie channel’s offering of Leave Her To Heaven. It’s the fireside host’s favourite apparently.
We can see why. The boy with disabilities drowns, there’s murder, intrigue and a court case that bears no relation to reality. We shouldn’t mock. It’s not worlds away from an opera. The more shocking thing is that no one ever tried to turn this story – it’s based on s book, it turns out – into opera.
As for today’s tea, it was another hit. This one is called Dark Chocolate Orange. It’s a black tea, and we on,y tasted the orange. We also suspect we understeeped it though, because the black tea only came through in that we woke up while drinking it.
We were Aldo drinking it without milk, which may gave been a factor. Teas with chocolate usually need a bit if milk to bring out the chocolate flavour. We were going to make a second pot with milk but then the power outage happened.
Turns out our gas job has electric ignition. Not even for you lovely lot am I exploding the house using matches.
Instead, have a poem about light, or the lack of it.
Lights Out
Edward Thomas
I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter, and leave, alone,
I know not how.
The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.
Chorister at Home 