My winter reading has led me back to poetry; re-reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets prompted memories of their discovery while exploring the book stacks in Newcastle Central Library, a building I visited religiously on my journey home from school. It was startlingly modern, almost brutalist in its concrete mass, but I always felt it to be my intellectual womb, a place where I discovered Elizabethan poetry, Dostoevsky, Sholokov, Chaucer. It has, sadly, been demolished.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.