Two things coincided very productively today: I read Wilfred Owen's collected poems on my Kindle, and I finally figured out the name of the plant that I always notice on roadsides in winter, with its clumps of white downy, wispy, cottony stuff - at one point, I even wondered if it was the cotton plant. It isn't, of course: it's Wild Clematis, a.k.a old man's beard. Thus a sonnet called Wild Clematis was born, and duly completed, informed by Wilfred Owen's poetry and making use of the image of the old mans' beard - the white beards that a generation of soldiers would never reach old age to grow. I'm quite pleased with the result, enough, even, to consider sending it to a magazine, which alas prevents me from uploaded it here. Still, when it wins a prize, I've documented the day of its creation; and when it doesn't, well, at least it has a blog to mark it out from the obscurity in which I and the rest of my poems languish.
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