Just a little note . . .

10 Forsythia Grove

Outer Hamlet

CORSETTSHIRE ZY6 4GT

 

 

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:

 

 

POTS ON SILL

 

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 . . .
Yours
Aunt Agatha