my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end

my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts

Samuel Beckett, from ‘Four Poems’ (2)

‘The summer rain rains on my life.’ Suddenly there it was, a sentence I hadn’t thought about for years. I was standing by the kitchen window making breakfast, trying not to think, as I do. The summer rain rains on my life. A day that began grey, gradually warmed up, then surprised itself by becoming a belter. The summer rain. It must have been in that unspeakable flat in Cricklewood, with finals approaching, all of life and learning on little cards (did we…