Standing Stones

As well as curating the young lives of 8 ankle biting puppies, doing the day job, all the usual of day to day family life, I'm also in the middle of a course on the Art of Poetry.

This morning I went for a run with DM where we couldn't hear the pups, or be jumped on or called on for those frequent tasks of puppy care. I constructed in my head as I ran a piece on a Sylvia Plath poem, I had tried and failed to read it without the shadow of her suicide. Despite that dark underbelly, her poetry is invigorating if often cruel in its beauty, a bit like a hilly run on my bit of Pennine moor.