Questions

 Dear Reader,

It is always difficult for me to know which of my various poems you will like.  I wasn't sure about the one I put on last week: Questions, as someone in the media said it was rather 'twee'.  But it has had the most 'likes' or equivalent on my blog that I have ever had So I decided to put it on again in case you missed it.  And I will put it first today so you don't have to read anything else if you don't want to.

Questions

Were the summers different then,
did the sun shine more, when
wet and cloudy days were few, when
butterflies took wing, and warm wind blew.

Did the bees collect more honey,
did we laugh more, were more things funny,
was the sea less rough, more azure,
did finer shells bewitch us on the shore?

Did roses fade so soon, wind or rain blown,
or were hedgerows so rich and pretty, grown
when all the summer days were bright,
not awash with rain, but drenched in light.

Were the days so cold and dreary,
and did we ever feel so weary
of days of heat and sun and sea,
picnics, sandcastles, flasks of tea?

Did dreams then, sometimes, come true,
when love would find us, hold us too,
and make our whole world seem completely new,
when butterflies took wing, and warm winds blew?

    A small snippet from my book "Half a Pair of People'.                                                                          *

 I thought of the Schopenhauer quote:

"He who does not enjoy solitude does not love freedom”, and decided that

solitude equaling freedom would be an acquired taste, arrived at 

time, with much planning, effort and thought. As it was, I had

 forgotten to buy any food. So hungry, cold, and feeling less

courageous than I expected, I burst into tears. Until that evening I did

not realize exactly what it would be like to be totally alone:

something which is perhaps not possible to know until experienced.

In the midst of noisy families women dream of endless peace and

quiet on their own, sure that they would be entirely happy in

isolation. But in truth they might be no such thing. An hour or two

maybe…. But real solitude, though aspired to by many, is in practice

only really enjoyed by a few.

 

                                                                                          *

While the whole world is weeping it is difficult to think of anything funny.   But if you didn't see this piece in the newspaper this week let me tell you and perhaps you can smile a little.    Slugs and snails are no longer to be called "pests".  To help shed their negative image they are, from now on, to be called "garden visitors".  I will remember that when next one visits the garden. Could you too?

                                                                                          *

Very best wishes, Patricia