Sunday, 23 September 2012

Just a little note . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
This is just a little note pet as, subsequent to my musings yesterday, I retired to my 'greenhouse' bed last night with words of a less usual character rehearsing themselves in my mind.  I hope you won't mind a small departure from witty repartee/agonized hospital musings, for here they are:
What are we all doing up here - breathing -
on the window sill?  In cool air, on white paint
with vapour wet on the glass.  Someone in pink
attends to us - picks off dead leaves, shortens
our stems, returns slugs to the lawn.  Her hair
is in our faces, our breath lavishes its scent.
Somehow she is astonished by us; she keeps
coming back, coming back, to touch the fresh
green of us, water the life in our roots.  We think
it is a warm enough place.  She thinks we are
a miracle.
There you are dear.  Peculiar in that I have not written a single stanza for nearly a year.  Some apparition or other has to be touching/have much meaning for words to connect up like this.  (Cough.  I must be embarrassed by it a little, for this is not my usual way or place.)
I did, in fact, telephone Edith this morning and request her to research the location of a deserted - and unheated - greenhouse.  For I have somehow developed a wish to find somewhere to grow:  Callistemons, Camellias, Citrus, Lemon Verbenas, Desert Cacti, Sedums and the like.  How do these
inclinations find us?  Life is mysterious.
And yet, I suspect dear, that you are inhabiting the darkness of some inn somewhere, slurping Guinness from a foaming glass, and waiting for the football to commence at 2pm? And further from a house plant one cannot possibly be . . .
Aunt Agatha

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