It was just too nice a day to spend more than this morning working on my writing. I spent the morning transcribing and editing the poetry I wrote last night at Writer's, I am impressed that I managed to get ten of them written. Ten! Not that all, or even any, of them are very good but I've got 10 ideas down on paper, 10 poems in the bank for posting to Poems & Pix.
September 4--Rudolph Friedrick Wasmann, Neopolitan Bagpipe Player in Wintry Rome. Lucia heard him coming before she had him. The music he made was like no other she had ever heard. It was like the wind moaning through the cypress trees in winter or the voice of a herd of cattle lowing at night. A melancholy sound. She was melancholy enough living with her mother-in-law while Paolo worked in Naples. and her with a new baby that bound her to the house in the damp chill of the late winter. The music got closer, close enough to disturb her sleeping son into a fretful mewl. She opened her dress to suckle the babe while the piper and his apprentice serenaded the house from the street hoping for a few coins.
Not bad for someone half asleep. *yawn* Tomorrow I'll try and do better. No diving tomorrow, either Sunday or Monday.
--Barbara
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