frost

I haven't got a lot for you today - just a link to a fab article by Kathryn Schulz on Robert Frost. 

When we were living in the States, we went on a wee roadie through New England, pitching up in Vermont to visit Robert Frost's grave.  I'm not usually a cemetary groupie (I don't seek out the tombs of the famous or infamous; though I love the history of a graveyard, celebrity spotting in this manner leaves me dead - no pun intended).  However, there is something about Frost's poetry that made we want to see where he was buried.  It was leaf-peeping season in New England - he is buried in a quaint, quintessentially colonial graveyard on a hillside, looking down onto a tree-lined valley in Vermont.  It was perfect.

FROST VIA.  HE ALWAYS SEEMED KIND OF CURMUDGEONLY TO ME (THROUGH HIS WORK), SO THIS PIC FITS THE BILL, EVEN THOUGH THE EXPRESSION IS A LITTLE SOFTER

Grandad loved Robert Frost (though he loved Burns even more.  Scottish heritage was big for Grandad T).  He was thrilled when I could recite Frost's poems to him verbatim as an 8 year old.  They used to make me feel a little hollow - his poems were so rhymey, conjuring very distilled scenes. However, they have very happy memories for me now on reflection - and this fantastic article made me see the cleverness of that crystal feeling of hollow articulated by Frost. 

Anyway, more words than expected on a dead poet.  And miles to go before I sleep.