Every so often blog

 Dear Reader,

 

Dear Friend,

I have been asked many times over the years whether I am ‘religious.'  Probably you have been too.  This, for me, is a difficult question to answer. I am not quite sure what being ‘religious” means.  So am I a Christian?  Yes, I believe and love Jesus Christ who I maintain is my friend, but is that being religious?  I don’t think so.

For over thirty years Geoffrey and I went to church every Sunday.  It was, in a way, our tradition. It was what we did.  I enjoyed the services, loved the church sitting right in the middle of Oxford, and some of the old hymns are heart warming. But what of the church’s 

teaching, what of the Bible?  Is it, as John Betjamen asks in his poem, a true story? 

I suppose we all individually have to make up our minds which bits we want to take as our religion, which bits are true for us.  So, having jusr written this piece, I suppose I am religious, on a chosen spiritual path of my own making, and this works very well for me.

                                                                     *

From John Ruskin  August 13th  1872 in Berkshire

‘Entirely calm and clear morning.  The mist from the river at rest among the trees, with rosy light on its folds of blue, and I, for the first time these ten years, happy’.

From Gilbert White   August 15th  1783  in Hampshire

‘The last gathering of wood-strawberries.  Bullfinches and red-breasts eat the berries of the honeysuckles’.

                                                                     *

Chapel

 

Away with the cherubs

the angels, the painted ceilings

the high arches

the high ceilings

nudes male and female

the artifacts

the gold crosses

and ornate statues of the 

Virgin Mary.

 

Give me a chapel with

whitewashed bricks

wooden pews

oak door with studs

daisies on the altar 

in a china jug

a bust of St. Columba

and quiet peace

in God's house.

 

With best wishes to you all

 

Patricia 

 

My Blog

 Dear Readers,

 

I have had several requests to be able to read my small blog which I decided to write after stopping the Sunday edition that I wrote for eleven years.

 

If you would like to be on my list just send me an email :  

 

patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

 

and I will send you, by email, the current blog. 

 

I felt rather sad when I had made the decision to write no more and decided therefore to just write a small blog every so often for friends and family.  Please join me if you would like to.

With very best wishes, Patricia 

The Mind Cupboard

 Dear Reader,

 

I thought I would just put your favourite poem on the blog as a last gesture.

 

The Mind Cupboard

 

My mind cupboard overflows
with unwanted debris.
It needs a spring clean.

I will brush away the cobwebs
of cheerless thoughts.
Scrub out the stains of childhood.

I will replace the brass hooks
corroded with salt tears,
empty all the screams
hoarded through the years.

I will replace the accumulated ashes
from the worn self-paper,
with virgin tissue.

I will chase and catch the wasps,
relieve them of their stings.
I will refill this cupboard
with love, and learnt, brighter things. 

 

Very best wishes, Patricia 

My Retirement

 Dear Reader,

 

I have been writing my blog for eleven years now and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  But the time has come when I find it all a bit of strain and so I am not going to write it any more.

 

Thank you all for reading it and I wish you every happiness in the years to come,

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

Truth Modern

Red Admiral

 

Dear Reader, 

 

I saw a Red Admiral butterfly in the garden last week, well I saw it from a window in the kitchen.  Because it is so hot outside and I get ocular migraines if I go out in the sun, I haven't been outside more than once this last week.  I expect if you are young and sprightly and reading this you will wonder what the fuss is all about from heat we are having.  But I assure you for elderly people such as myself the extreme heat can be dangerous as well as being unpleasant.

Gosh I look forward to a day of rain, or several.  A gentle breeze and light rain would be perfect, perhaps we will get some next week. I certainly hope so.

                                                                                * 

I feel very upset about the murder of Ann Widdecombe last week.   Not particularly because she was well known but that such a thing should happen in the Devon countryside.  There she was, getting on with her life, and someone breaks into her house and murders her.  

What is England coming to?  When I lived in the  New Forest fifty years ago we didn't even have a key to the back door and possibly not even to the front door either.  We walked through the forest, the children and I, never fearful of who we might meet. But I wouldn't do it today. 

Ah well, the world has certainly changed,

                                                                                       *

 

 

From Gilbert White   July 15th    1786  in Hampshire

'Made jellies and jams of red currants.  Gathered broad beans ....The cat gets upon the roof of the house, and catches young bats as they come forth from behind the sheet of lead at the bottom of the chimney.' 

           

From Francis Kilvert    July 16th   1863 in Wiltshire

'As I walked along the field path I stopped to listen to the rustle and solemn night whisper of the wheat, so different to its voice by day.'

                                                                           *

Truth Modern

 

 

Through a kaleidoscope’s

shifting, bright colours,

set close to the eye,

the viewer’s truth is reflected,

assuring the mind of its veracity,

acknowledging its fantasies

as realities,  

seeing truth

not as it is, but as we would

like it to be,

spinning words,

detaching truth from its moorings,

setting it loose in murky waters.

Illusions of truth

sandwiched between lies

is the authentic truth

of our times.

 

                                                                           *

Wit best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stations

 Dear reader,

Pigeons are the oldest domesticated birds in the world, tracing their origins back to the Middle East 5,000 to 10,000 years ago.  Descended from the Wild Rock Dove, they were originally farmed for meat and bred as messenger carriers before transitioning into urban environments where they adapted to modern city life. 

Because Wild rock Doves naturally roost on cliffs and possess an incredible ability to navigate and return home over long distances, humans quickly began selectively breeding them for communication. 

During WW1 and WW11 hundreds of thousands of homing pigeons were utilized by militarizes on both sides.  Because radios could be easily intercepted or jammed these 'war pigeons' were vital for delivering critical intelligence from the front lines. 

                                                                            *

 

I see, with trepidation, that it is going to be 32 degrees or more again next week.  Gosh I long for summers of yesteryear.  A weak sun and a gentle breeze, proper picnic weather, and a quiet walk through the woods. 

So it will be back to drawn curtains and fans, and not venturing out.  What have us humans done to the planet?   We have destroyed it or are doing so.

                                                                               *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  July 5th 1802 in Westmorland 

'A very sweet morning.   William stayed some time in the orchard....It came on a heavy rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended...The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honey suckle, though in its gory, is sadly teazed.  The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking. The garden is overrrun with weeds. 

 From Gerard Manley Hopkins  July 9th 1871 in Lancashire

'After much rain, some thunder, and no summer as yet, the river swollen and golden...there was this day a thunder storm on a greater scale - huge rocky clouds lit with a lived light, hail and rain that flooded the garden, and thunder ringing and echoing round like brass.'

 

                                                                                   *

Stations

 

are full of people,

people angry, people joyful

people sad, people anxious,

people disappointed,

people running,

people excited,

old people,

young people,

middle aged people

the odd dog

 

Stations are full

of smoke

the smell of frying onions

gauloise cigarettes

pigeons

lost luggage

people hurrying to and fro

the crashing of doors

noise and emotion

 

Stations

are the beginning

or the end

 

the alpha

the omega

 

                                                                  *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

 Dear reader,

I have really hated the past few days of extreme heat.  Perhaps it is a little better today, but not much and my study is too hot to think and write the blog.  Please forgive me,  I have holed up this week with curtains drawn and fans on full strength so am feeling a bit feeble and tired.

But this poem about the tortoise and the hare always seems to amuse you so here it is :

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise, shell-encased,
shy, and timid,
was fond of quiet places.
He ate lettuce sandwiches,
drank bottled water
and did deep breathing exercises.
He was slow alright,
but kept on "keeping on" getting there,
although a little fearful
or what life can bring.

The, he discovered anxiety pills,
and grew bolder,
he opinionated more.
Rejected lettuce,
ate avocado and prawn cocktails,
drank vodka,
and tried his hand at salsa dancing.
Confidence change him.

Ah ha the hare.

The hare spoke his mind.
He jumped and danced
texted and mobiled friends,
arranged outings,
and had a ball.
But the Gods were watching him,
the sent a "don't forget card"
to remind him of his tortoise life.

his quiet life
the life that was right and good
for a tortoise.

He threw the anxiety pills away
and slowly his shell grew back,
he started reading again,
he talked less,
thought more,
enjoyed lettuce sandwiches
and drank bottled water.
He became the tortoise 
that he was meant to be.

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

Moment

 Dear Reader,

Stained glass windows, made up of coloured and painted glass pieces held together by lead strips, were especially popular in Europe in the period between 1150 and 1550, when they were a prominent feature of cathedrals and other churches as well as city halls and homes for the elite.  

Its translucent qualities made stained glass especially popular in religious contexts where large windows with scenes from the bible and the lives of saints could animate a saved space with colourful glimmering lights, and subtly change the atmosphere depending on the tie of day, and the changing of the seasons. 

                                                                                   *

I see it is going to be very hot next week, a heatwave on Monday and Tuesday.  This kind of weather does not suit me at all.   I shut all the curtains and blinds, put on the fans and spend the time reading and doing a jigsaw puzzle.  Mary gave me the puzzle for Christmas this year and I am doing it again for the third time.  I like doing the same puzzle over and over again, I don't why this is the case, but it is a fact nevertheless.

                                                                                

                                                                                     *

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth     June 20th  1802  in Westmorland

'We lay upon the sloping turf.   Earth and sky were so lovely that they melted our very hearts.  The sky to the north was of a chastened yet rich yellow, fading into pale blue and streaked and scattered over with a steady islands of purple, melting away into shades of pink.  It made my heart almost feel like a vision to me.' 

From William Cowper    June 21st  1784 in Buckinghamshire

'We have now frosty mornings, and so cold a wind, that even at high noon we have been obliged to break off our walk in the southern side of the garden and seek shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin by the fireside.  Haymaking begins here to-morrow.' 

 

                                                                                      *

Moment

 

The church is cool from summer sun,

organ music plays.

 

We walk down the aisle

enjoy the scent of lilies

filling the holy air

point out ruby stained glass windows

depicting Christ on the cross,

examine oak and stone carvings

plaster heads of saints

the altar cloth rich in green and gold.

 

He runs up the pulpit steps

says a few words in Latin.

I laugh

then we kneel together in a back pew

say a prayer.

 

He takes my hand.

 

                                                                    *

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

Maybe Prince Philip's bedroom looked like this.

 Dear reader,

 

The only things I know about Prince Philip are the ones I read in the newspaper or in a book.  It seems to me that he was rather a difficult and taciturn man, not easy for the Queen or for anyone else for that matter.  

I sometimes like to imagine the Royal family and concluded that Prince Philip was very traditional in his tastes so I wrote the following poem with that in mind. I really know someone who reads a book called "Grouse in Health and Disease' and finds it very interesting.  Well it takes all sorts doesn't it?

The Duchess of Kent, now sadly died, was my favourite Royal.  She was, I think, kind and good and taught the piano at a local school calling herself Mrs. Kent. 

                                                                             *

I have been doing small sketches about this and that on Instagram which seem to go down well.  This week I had had a good idea so I spoke about it. Lots of the women who perform on Instagram wear lovely  new clothes and I suddenly decided that I would like some new ones too.  But I am short of money and had a good idea. Put all your existing clothes out on the bed, I said, then jumble them all up.  Put different cardigans with different dresses and change the colour scarves you usually wear and lo you have new outfits from your own collection.  It works very well and I am pleased with the results.

 

                                                                                 * 

From Gerald Manly Hopkins   June 16th  1873 in Lancashire

'I looked at the pigeons down in the  kitchen yard and so on.  The look like little gay jugs by shape when they walk, strutting and jod-jodding with their heads.  The two young ones are all white and the pins of the folded wings, quill pleated over quill, are like the crisp and shapely cuttle-shells found on the shore.   The others are dull thunder-colour or black-grape-colour except in the the white pieings, the quills and tail, and in the shot of the neck.  I saw one up on the eaves of the roof: as it moved its head a crush of stain green came and went, a wet or soft flaming of the light.'

                                                                                   *

Maybe

 

Prince Philip’s bedroom

looked like this:

 

Two afghan carpets cover the floor,

in the corner a narrow bed with quilted eiderdown,

a small oak bedside table

with lamp and parchment shade,

two small books:

‘Grouse in Health and Disease’

and ‘Fishing on the Spey’,

hunting pictures, horses and dogs

are hung round the room,

a mahogany chest of drawers

with family photographs on top,

one with the Queen and a corgi,

two silver hair brushes lie on

a round table with mirror,

and his bright blue dressing gown

is thrown over an embroidered stool.

The arm chair has a floral cover

with matching chintz cushions,

and there is small vase

of early daffodils on the window seat.

 

Or maybe not.

 

                                                                         *

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

This Man

Pictures of Ratty

Dear reader, 

Making my breakfast last week I looked out of the window and saw a large rat in the garden.  Now I am not keen on rats.  They are a smidgen better than mice because they don't scuttle about but nevertheless I am not keen.  In fact I sat down all of a tremble.  Knowing my usual anxious state I started to imagine that he/she would get into the house, and possibly have lots of baby rats as well.

So what was the best thing to do?  I decided that I had to think of a rat that I liked or at least tolerated.  Ah yes, I thought, Ratty from The Wind in the Willows, and was in fact,  quite fond of. It was possible I suppose that the rat in my garden was a vague relation of The Wind in the Willows character and therefore a sort of friend.  

The trembling stopped and I felt composed again.  

The moral of this tale is, I suppose, that it is your attitude to events that makes us calm and happy.The way we digest news of any kind can take take the stress out of it if we allow it to.

Change your attitude and see if I am not right.

                                                                                     *

 

 From Gilbert White    June7th 1783 in Hampshire

'Tulips are faded.   Honeysuckles still in beauty.  My columbines are very beautiful.  Tied some of the stems with pieces of worsted, to mark them for seed.  Planted out pots of green cucumbers.'

 

From Francis Kilvert   June 15th  1873 in Wiltshire

'The sun and the golden buttercup meadow had it almost to themselves......One or two people were crossing the Common early by the several paths through the golden sea of buttercups which will soon be the silver sea of ox-eyes.   The birds were signing quietly.  The cuckoo's notes tolled clear and sweet as a silver bell.' 

                                                                            *

 

this man

 

loved blue

 

it was a ship, a blue ship

 

that he sailed in

 

it was his power

 

made his heart beat faster

 

drove him along life’s waterways

 

 

but he sailed away

 

came adrift

 

became shipwrecked

 

no power no heartbeat

 

this man

 

had lost the blue

 

 

but I made a small ship out of wood

 

gave it sails of the finest silk

 

an engine fired with love

 

 now he sails again

 

his power came back

 

 

and I painted the ship blue

 

for

 

this man

 

 

                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

For You, Everyman

 Dear Reader

 

The Kaftan is one of the world's oldest garments.  Originating in ancient Mesopotamia and Persia (c.600 BC) the long loose an airy tunics was originally a practical lightweight garment designed to beat the heat, and served as a symbol of nobility and status. 

Over millennia, it spread along global trade routes and evolved to become a symbol of power, high fashion, and everyday luxury across multiple empires.  The Ottomans embraced the Kaftan  primary garment.  The robes were meticulously crafted from fine silk, velvet and gold.

The colours, patterns and buttons displayed the weaver's exact rank.  Sultans also used them as diplomatic gifts to important dignitaries and generals. Originally reserved for royal court and elite, it became a cornerstone of Moroccan wedding ceremonies and traditional craftsmanship.

The Kaftan was embraced by Western hippies and travelers in the l960s and l970s who discovered them on the "hippy trail"across North Africa and India. 

 

                                                                             * 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth    May 31st  1802 in Westmorland

'We sat out all day.'

 

From William Allingham   May 31st  1865 in Donegal

'Walk in the garden at  midnight and her corncrake.'

 

From Thomas Hardy   June 3rd  1865 in London

'Walked about by moonlight in the evening.  Wondered what woman, if any, I should be thinking about in five years' time.' 

                                                                          * 

 

 

For You,

Everyman

 

 My smile is for you.

Yes, you, the man on the omnibus,

You, the woman in the crowd,

You, the small child, playing in the dust,

You, the homeless, the tramp unbowed,

You, in business suit, you, in kaftan,

You, the tall, you, the short,

 

Yes, You, Everyman.

 

The exchanged smile

acknowledges shared humanity

in this fleeting recognition.

No words are needed.

 

                                                                     *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Valediction

 Dear Reader,

 

Daisy chains trace their origins back to folklore, pastoral pastimes, and mythology of Europe. While the exact inventor is  lost to history the craft of weaving Bellis perennis stems dates back centuries, evolving from ancient Celtic and Roman myths into a timeless symbol of innocence, youth and peace.

In Celtic mythology daisies were said to be scattered over the earth by God to cheer parents who had lost a child.  The white petals and yellow centres came to symbolize pure spirits. 

                                                                               *

 

I am finally feeling better and have come to one conclusion about prescription pills.   They do not suit me at all.  I was given pills because I said to the doctor I had nightmares; the pills I was prescribed gave me more nightmares. I had been feeling ill with strange thoughts in my head and, guess what, some of the blood pressure pills I was taking were known for giving you bad and strange thoughts.  So now I take none of the pills and feel good and happy.  One piece of advice:  always read the side effects that you might have in your prescription pills, this is essential for understanding what you might be experiencing.

 

                                                                                *

From D.H. Lawrence  May 24th  1916 in Cornwall

'The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primroses like settling butterflies, and seapinks like a hover of pink bees, near the water.  There is a Spanish ship run on the rocks just below - great excitement everywhere.' 

From Francis Kilvert  May 27th   1874 in Wiltshire

'.....banks and hedges brilliant with pink campion.....As I came home the western heavens were jewelled with pure bright sparkling lights of grey silver and pale gold, and overhead a sublime mackerel sky of white and blue in its distant fleecy beauty gave me more intense and grand sense of infinity and illimitable than I ever remember to have had before.' 

 

                                                                                    *

A Valediction

 

To innocence

to childhood

to youth

to skipping about

to making daisy chains

to looking in the mirror

seeing someone pretty

to wearing gypsy clothes

feeling exotic in them

to flirting and being flirted with

to kissing someone new

drowning in that indescribable

feeling of lust and love

to smoking king size cigarettes

to being passionate about something

daydreaming about a bright future

to changing the world

making poverty unknown

the poor rich.

 

But knowing now the truth

about old age being shite

hello to fudge and ice cold gins,

small pleasures and quieter things.

 

                                                                     *

With very best wishes,  Patricia 

 

 

My Memoir Written last year. HALF A PAIR OF PEOPLE

                                                                                 

Dear Reader,

 

It seems to me that you like my Instagram sketches, thank you so much.

 

Last year I brought out a book of my life up to the time that I lived in Oxford in 1980.  Lots of stories of my varied life which you seem to enjoy. So Friends here is an idea.

 

Why not buy one?

All you have to do is go on line to AMAZON.

Go to the books section and write PATRICIA HUTH and it will come up and you can order the book wherever you live.

Everyone who has read it has enjoyed it very much and I think you will too.  It is funny.

 

Thank you for all your wonderful support over the years, eleven years now since I started my blog.  And it has been fun, I have only missed five Sundays in all that time.

 

Very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

  

Misconception

 

 

 Dear reader,

After I got divorced I went to live in Oxford and tried to find a job.  My secretarial skills were minimal. I could just manage 120 words of shorthand and my typing was abysmal. So I enrolled at the College of Further Education and for several months I tried to improve.  In fact my shorthand was very poor  and needed prompt attention.  It never got any better.

Anyway, I finally applied for a job in an Oxford College as a secretary.  I sort of imagined that working in an Oxford College would be just the ticket, with wonderful interesting academics and lovely buildings to admire.  As so often with imaginations of this nature it was not the case.   

I managed to get a job as the Fellows' secretary in a well known college.  The job was in a cupboard with hardly room to stand up in and the typewriter had seen better days.  The dons themselves were a weird bunch, some very nice and some not so. There was a Greek who always wanted to be first in the queue for his correspondence to be typed, I was not in a position to argue so he always was first.

 It was an enormous relief when I left after a year and probably the dons were relieved too.   I wasn't cut out to be a secretary, I would rather wash up in a hotel, which I also did.  Ah well...

                                                                                 *

 

 

From Francis Kilvert   May 18th  1874 in Wiltshire

'Went with Dora at 3 o'clock to a picnic in the Marsh....... we played hide-and-seek in the wood and danced Sir Roger de Coverley under the oaks in the green glade near the keeper's lodge.  Agnes and Edith made a pretty picture once for a moment as they stood together on the mound at the foot of one of the  oaks, dressed alike sisterly in bright magenta skirts.

The sheets of bluebells were still in all their splendour and the pink rhododendrons were just beginning to show their blossoms. 

 

                                                                                    * 

 

 

 

 

Misconception

 

The woman thought when she left

the office building would explode,

blood from her willing heart

would drip from the ceiling,

pieces of her goodwill,

her ready smile,

possibly her arms and legs,

would drop into waste bins,

flow out of filing cabinets,

strew the carpet with bits of herself.

The atmosphere would be dank

with tears for the loss of her.

She knew her worth.

 

In the spring, Sandra met her.

Karen, from Accounts,

now has her job, she said.

She is brilliant, everyone loves her.

 

The woman walked away,

mantled in her goodness,

surprised at what poor judgements

people make.

 

                                                                                           *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

Sometimes

Dear Reader,

 

A little while ago I contracted a particularly nasty disease called UTI, standing for Urine Tract Infection.  As a result I felt unwell for much of the time.  I was telling this sad story to my daughter Jessica who said I need something to cheer me up.  And we thought of the fun that could be had on Instagram if I could think of anything interesting to say.

 

So this is what we did.  And if you are interested go to Instagram, hit on Patricia Huth Ellis and you will get to see all my little sketches.  They seem to be very popular and I am not quite sure why.  I do say that I am a poet, and 86 years old but that doesn't seem to put people off. Ah well it is great fun and at last I am feeling much better and enjoying its success.

 

Many thanks to all of you who have written, obviously I can't write individually but I am very appreciative nevertheless. 

*

 

 

 

 

From D.H. Lawrence   May 24th  1916 in Cornwall

 

 The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primroses, like settling butterflies, and seapinks like a hover of pink bees, near the water.  There is a Spanish ship run on the rocks just below - great excitement everywhere.'

From Francis Kilvert  May 27th  1875 in Wiltshire

'My bedroom is illuminated all day with a beautiful rosy light from the glorious blossom of the pink may on the lawn.'

From Gilbert White   May 28th  1793 in Hampshire

'My weeding-woman swept up on the grass-plot a bushel basket of blossoms from the white apple-tree; and yet that tree still covered the bloom.' 

                                                                                         *

 

Sometimes

 

I feel overwhelmed by

a spirit of joyfulness,

a desire to jump, to dance,

to laugh, to see the world

in a bright light,

 

sometimes I am optimistic,

enjoy the warmth of the sun,

soft patter of rain on my face,

the wonders of this world.

 

Sometimes I believe

people are kind and good

are innocent of evil

deserve praise and

I honour them

 

and sometimes I don’t.

 

                                                                       ^*

 

^{With very best wishes, Patricia} 

 

 

 

 

           

                                                                              *

 

Journeys

                                                                     Kilimanjaro
 

 

Dear Reader,

 I put this poem on the blog this week to remind me of the many journeys I have taken in my long life and now, sadly, can no longer enjoy except from the sitting room sofa.  My most favourite travel experience was going to Marrakesh in the 1970's.  It was just so different from anywhere I had ever been.  I went to school in Paris as a teenager and stayed in Gibraltar with an aunt and uncle in the 1950s but had never seen anything like the colour and wonder of Marrakesh.  I went with my first husband who was very handsome, blond blue eyed and tall.  And he was followed everywhere with promises of exotic times with the young boy's mother, sister, aunt,  themselves.  I didn't count at all.  I loved the golds, yellows and all the rich colours in the Sioux, and seeing camels trotting down the streets was so exciting to me. I think of that holiday with lovely memories, it was so different from Europe.

 

       

                                                                                 *

Francis has been in hospital this week again with the dreaded UTI  (Urine Tract Infection).  It is a beastly disease and apparently very difficult to get rid of and he has been very unwell.  I had it too and am not sure it has entirely gone even with the help of anti-bio tics.  I hate pills and frequently think they do more harm than good with the side effects.

                                                                                   *

from Gerard Manley Hopkins    May 3rd  1866 in Oxford

Cold.   Morning raw and wet, afternoon fine......Cowslips capriciously colouring meadows in creamy drifts.  Bluebells, purple orchids.   Over the green water of the river passing the slums of the town and under the bridges swallows shooting, blue and purple above and shewing their amber-tinged breasts reflected int the water. 

                                                                               *

Journeys

 

Young,
we fly to distant places,
walk the Silk Road,
swim in the Nile,
climb Kilimanjaro,
sail the great seas,
picnic in the desert
under the stars.

 

Middle aged, with children,
we travel to Europe,
walk in the hills,
ski, surf board, visit museums,
exclaim at the Eiffel Tower,
swim in rivers,
raid the High Streets.

Grandparents, and old now,

we travel all over the world,
enjoy lions in Africa,
natives dancing in Bali,
big white whales in vast oceans,
and explore National Parks

while drinking cups of tea,
preparing for the unknown

and longest journey.

 

                                                                                                 *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     *