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 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     *

Cardigan

 Dear reader,

 

The Wind in the Willows is almost every bodies favourite book and story.  It certainly is mine.  Wouldn't it be lovely fun to visit Mole in his underground house full of sardine tins and dust. But so wonderfully cosy and endearing. And then Mr Toad was a character wasn't he?  I am not sure that he isn't a bit like Donald Trump, full of threats and arrogance.  Still I feel fond of him.  Ratty of course was wonderful, witty and sensible and protected Mr. Mole who was less so, but sweet and lovable.  Their adventures were edge of the chair especially in the Wild Wood.  Well if you didn't read the book do go out and buy a copy.  it should entrance you.

                                                                                   *

I had a horrible infection which is only just going.  I sometimes think that the pills to help get rid of it are worse that the infection its self.  Getting old is such a bugger, as King George V might have said.

                                                                                      *

From Dorothy Wordsworth     April 29th   1802   Westmorland

A beautiful morning - the sun shone and all was pleasant.  William lay, and I lay, in the trench under the fence- he with his eyes shut, and listening to the waterfalls and the birds.   There was one waterfall above another - and it was a sound of waters in the air - the voice of the air.   William heard me breathing and rustling now and then, but we both lay still, and unseen by one another; he thought that it would be as sweet thus to lie so in the grave, to her the peaceful sounds of the earth, and just to know that our dear friends were near. 

                                                                                 *

Cardigan

 

Why is it that it makes

me feel safe?

 

I ease myself into it

do all the buttons up,

am encased in warmth

and love and security,

it envelops and hugs me,

the cardigan is my shell.

 

What is it about my cardigan

that makes me think of

honey sandwiches,

daisies in a china vase,

a curled up dog in basket,

doves cooing on the roof,

Ratty, Mole and Badger

and possibly Mr. Toad?

 

The cardigan is safety,

reminds me of nanny,

her ponds face cream

her lavender water

her loving arms and

her kisses.

 

Cardigan, the forever garment of love.

 

                                                                           *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorry No Blog this Week

 Dear Reader,

 

Have not got over my infection yet so no energy for blog this week, I apologize.

 

Have a good and happy week and take my best wishes with you,

 

Patricia 

Quickening

 Dear reader,

 

Cherry blossoms, or sakura, are deeply embedded in Japanese culture with a history spanning over 1,000 years, symbolizing transience, beauty and renewal.   Originating as a way to predict harvests, hanami (flower viewing) became popular in the 18th century, representing samurai, honor and ephemeral nature of life.

According to HuffPost it is widely held consensus that the origin of the first cherry blossoms happened somewhere in the Himalayas, Eurasia, but scholars posit that the blossoms may have reached Japan around several thousand years ago.

Cherry blossoms mark the arrival of spring, a season of new beginnings and rebirth.   Their short life span, blossoming for just a couple of weeks serves as a powerful reminder of the transience of life and the importance of cherishing every moment.  It is said that the oldest cherry blossom tree is between 1,800  and 2,000 years old.

 

                                                                              *

From Francis Kilvert    April 18th  1876 in Wiltshire

'This morning I married John Knight and Elizabeth Austin at Langley Burrell Church.  It ws April weather with showers and gleams by whiles.....Rice and flowers were showered upon the bride in the porch and churchyard.  There were three carriages, with greys and postilions in Scarlet. '

 

From Samuel Pepys   April 22nd  1664 in Kent

'I was called up this morning before four o'clock.  It was full light to dress myself:   and so by water against tide, it being a little cool, to Greenwich; and thence only that it was somewhat foggy till the sun got up to some height, walked with great pleasure to Woolwich, in my way staying several times to listen to the nightingales. 

                                                                               * 

 

 

Quickening

 

 

 

 

I want the pulse of life that has been asleep

to wake, embrace me, put on the light.

To hear the thrush, song-repeat, to keep

my trust in God to hurry icy winter’s flight.

I want to glimpse, under sodden leaves, green shoots

to announce life’s circle, its beginnings, have begun.

I want to run barefoot, abandon boots,

to walk through primrose paths, savour the sun.

I want to take off winter’s dress, change its season,

to see the coloured petticoats of spring, bloom

and show us mortals nature’s reason

to start afresh, admire the peacock’s plume.

Cellar the coal, brush the ashes from the fire,

I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

 

                                                        *

  

 I have been doing a few sketches on Instagram which you might like to see.  I just did them for fun because I haven't been feeling very well lately and they make me laugh and cheer me up. Perhaps you will enjoy them, I did them with my daughter Jessica and my two grandchildren.

 

 

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

                                                                                     *

 

The Date Jar

 Dear reader,

 

Marmalade originated from ancient Greek and Roman quince pastes, with the name deriving from the Portuguese 'marmelada.'  In the 16th and 17th centuries this firm, sugary, fruit paste formula evolved in Britain into a citrus preserve using imported Seville oranges, becoming a popular quintessential British breakfast staple by the 18th/19th centuries, largely popularized by Scottish commercial production.

The tale that Mary Queen of Scots ate it when sick, supposingly sparking the name "Marie Malade", is generally considered a myth.  Modern marmalade has existed since the 1700s when the Scots added water to marmalade to male it less solid than before.

James Keiller founded the first marmalade factory in 1997, so the story of the Keiller Dundeed marmalade is difficult to avoid.  The myth goes that marmalade was invented in Dundee by the wife of a grocer named James Keiller after he bought a loaf of discounted and unsalable oranges from a storm blasted cargo ship. 

                                                                         *

Toast, butter and marmalade make for me, a perfect breakfast or supper.

                                                                                  *

From Dorothy Wordsworth    April 6th   1798   in Somerset

'Walked a short distance up the lesser Coombe, with an intention of going to the source of the brook, but the evening closing in, cold prevented us. The Spring still advancing very slowly.  The horse-chestnuts budding, and the hedgerows beginning to look green, but nothing fully expanded.'

From Gilbert White    April 8th    1770 in Hampshire

'No birds sing. and no insects appear during this wintry sharp season. '

From Gilbert White   April 11th  1790 in Oxford

'Thames very full and beautiful, after so much dry weather wheat looks well; meadows dry, and scorched; roads very dusty.'

 

                                                                               

The Date Jar

(after cancer operation)

 

On the breakfast table I noticed

the date jar, 

hiding a little behind the cereals,

the milk, the marmalade, the sugar bowl,

and a small jug full of early daffodils.

 

The date jar?

 

My throat constricted.

It was the thought he had had,

laying things out,

that I might like a date,

that touched the chord.

 

                                                                                         *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

Absent

 Dear reader, 

 

Lawn daises or "day's eyes" are native to Europe and have been used for centuries for their medicinal properties, folklore, and as popular lawn decorations.

Originally used by Romans for wounds, they have evolved from a traditional spring herb to a widely recognized often tolerated component of short-mown turf, particularly in the UK.

In the 14th century they were used in ointments for gout and fever.  Henry VIII reputedly ate them to treat stomach ulcers.

Daisies symbolize innocence and purity.  In Norse mythology they were sacred to Freya, the goddess of love and fertility.   In Celtic love they represented the spirits of children who died in infancy.

While treated as a weed in pristine, modern chemically treated lawns, they are also recognised as important early season food source for bees and as an alternative to bare soil.

 

                                                                              *

From Gilbert White   March 31st   1768 in Hampshire

'Black weather.  Cucumber fruit swells.   Rooks sit.  This day the dry weather has lasted a month.' 

 

From Gilbert White   March 31st 1771 in Hampshire

'The face of the earth naked to a surprising degree.  Wheat hardly to be seen, and no signs of any grass: turnips all gone, and sheep in a starving way.  All provisions rising in price. Farmers cannot sow for want of rain.'

 

From Richard Jefferies   March 3lst  1880 in Surrey

'Rain at last after weeks of the driest weather. Rain in night and early morning.' 

 

                                                                                *

Absent

 

In this spectral place
there is a sense of desolation,
of God not being here
that strikes icy cold.
In the dank, dark nave
lies a decomposing owl,
a cobwebbed confessional, worn rotten
and on the battered altar
a smashed wooden cross.

Long ago, did sunlight venture through
the cracked, ruby-stained glass window?

Were bread and wine transformed
into Christ's body and blood?
Did young men, expectant, marry
young women, kiss and breathe in
the churchyard's sweet summer air?
And did tears blow away unseen
in the southern mistral winds,
after a service testifying that life was here
in the absent place?

 

                                                                      *

Walking in woods in France I came across this church and felt very sad.

 

                                                                       *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

Small moments of warmth

 

Dear Reader, 

 

Great Yarmouth is a seaside town which gave its name to the wider Borough of Great Yarmouth.   Yarmouth has been a resort since 1760 and a gateway from the Norfolk Broads to the North sea.

Through the 20th century Yarmouth boomed as a resort with a promenade, pubs, trams, fish and chip shops, theatres, the pleasure Beach, the sea Life centres, and a Victorian seaside Winter Garden in cast iron and glass. 

                                                                             *

From John Ruskin  March 28th  1886   in Lancashire

 'Softest quiet poised clouds, calm lake in sunshine,  the sound of steams from hills, and the sense of peaceful power in all things.' 

  

 

 

Small moments of warmth

 

 

 

 

I remember a little warmth,

Joey trotting the family through Norfolk lanes,

the small yellow trap swaying in the sunshine.

 

I remember picnics on Yarmouth beach

with enough blue sky ‘to make a sailor’s trouser’.

We ate cucumber sandwiches, Penguin biscuits.

 

I remember dark evenings,

the small warm flame from a Tilly lamp

lighting the kitchen, and sometimes for supper

we had chicken, chocolate mousse.

 

I remember a warm holiday in France

squeezed into the back of a car,
singing old thirties love songs.

 

But will these small moments of warmth,

at the end, be enough to heat and split

the heavy stones that circle the human heart,
allow salt tears to trickle through the cracks?

 

 

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

                                                                         *

 

Realization

 Dear reader,

The Eurasian bullfinch is a chunky distinctive songbird native to Europe and Asia, historically viewed as a agricultural pest due to its fondness for fruit buds.  Known for its shy nature and ability to mimic tunes it was famously kept as a caged bird in the 19th century and underwent a population decline int the late 20th century holding a "amber" conservation status.

In the 16th century HenryV111 viewed them as disruptive of fruit crops.  Parliament authorized a one-penny reward for every bird killed as their appetite for buds was considered a 'criminal attack' on orchards.

The species experience a significant 40% decline in the UK from the mid-1970s through to the
90s largely attributed to agricultural intensification and loss of hedgerows, though the might have shown signs of recovery since 2000.

                                                                            *

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth     March 20th  1798 in Somerset 

' A very cold evening, but clear.  The spring seemingly very little advanced.  No green trees, only the hedges are budding, and looking very lovely.' 

 

From Richard Hayes   March 21st   1762 in Kent

'This day I saw a yellow butterfly....My rooks, by the cold weather and snow, did not begin building till last Sunday (14th).'From John Ruskin   March 28th  1886  Coniston, in Lancashire 

 

From John Ruskin   March 28th   1886 in Lancashire

'Softest quiet poised clouds, calm lake in sunshine, the sound of streams from hills and the sense of peaceful power in all things.' 

                                                                       *

 

Realization

 

 

I am

part of the whole.

 

I am

in the first light,

the bird’s first song,

the sun’s first dart

through the curtain crack,

in the music of summer trees.

 

I am

part of the alpha,

the birth,

the awakening,

the growing and spreading,

the throbbing of life.

 

I am part of all suffering

hands blood-stained.

Part of love

humanity shares and

of all good things.

 

I am

part of the omega,

the closing, the last light,

the call back from the dark

to the bright, eternal night.

 

 

                                                                                   *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

violets

 Dear  Reader,

 

I thought you might like to see these violets, photographed by Jessica, in a Cotswold wood.

 

Best wishes Patricia 

Spring Fair

 Dear reader,

Country fairs originated from ancient seasonal European gatherings evolving from medieval trading markets into, by the 18th century, major spectacles of entertainment, agriculture and commerce.

While early fairs were strictly for trade, they transformed in the 19th century with mechanized rides, sideshows, and, in America, agricultural competitions.

Funfairs have been a staple for family days out in the UK for centureis.  One of the earliest fairs recorded was Bartholemew Fair in 1133.  The oldest fair in the UK is Goose Fair, a tradition for the ages.   Nottingham's Goose Fair is still going strong over 700 years later. The event started in the 13th century and is referred to as the world's oldest travelling fair.

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I wrote this poem after taking Jessica to a fair when she was about 17.  She really did disappear and I didn't see her again until the next morning. I never found out where she had gone and what she was doing. 

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 `From Dorothy Wordsworth   March 13th  1802 in Westmorland

'After dinner we walked to Rydale for letters - it was terribly cold- we had 2 or 3 brisk hail showers - the hail stones looked clean and pretty upon the dry clean road.  Little Peggy Simpson was standing at the door catching the hail stones in her hand.'

From Francis Kilvert   March 19th   1871 in Radnorshire

'The sun was almost overpowering.   Heavy black clouds drove up and rolled round the sky without veiling the hot sunshine, black clouds with white edges they were, looking suspiciously like thunder clouds.  Against these black clouds the sunshine showed the faint delicate green and pink of the trees thickening with bursting buds.' 

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Spring Fair                 

 

 

 

The young girl

and her mother, holding hands,

hurry down the hill

where the bright lights beckon,

see the big dippers hurtling,

painted horses swirling, yellow

swing boats diving, swooping,

smell the grease and diesel,

hear the loud beat of music,

the children’s screams.

 

Young men of the fair,

long-haired, dark, a little wild,

eye the girls with bright,

knowing looks.

The air is full of restlessness, of quickening,

an urgency to act

before the end of night,

when morning light will move them on.

 

Dusk falls, the young girl drops her mother’s hand,

stirred by the primal desire of early spring.

Running silently she disappears into the night, eager

to share what ancient fires of life can bring.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Glimpsed a Child

 

 

Dear Reader, 

In the heart of Morocco where tradition weaves through the fabric of daily life, the ritual of mint tea preparation is a story of culture, hospitality and history.

This beloved drink, a symphony of green tea, mint leaves, sugar, and water, is more than a beverage, it is a symbol of Moroccan generosity and warmth, cherished from the bustling souks of Marrakesh to the tranquil Amazign (Berber) villages in the Atlas mountains.

Beyond its soothing taste, Moroccan mint tea is lauded fro its health benefits.  Rich in antioxidants , this verdant drink is a guardian of well-being, offering a refreshing pause in the rhythm of life, a moment to reflect and rejuvenate amidst the day's pursuits.

The serving of mint tea in Morocco transcends the mere act of hospitality, it is a ceremonial gesture of respect and friendship. It graces the most auspicious occasions, from weddings to religious festivities, each pour from the ornate berrad (teapot) as a symbol of unity and celebration.

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Marrakesh is quite my favourite place abroad.  It is so exciting with rich colour everywhere, exotic people and beautiful buildings. I bought a carpet whilst being offered mint tea.  It was delicious.

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From Dorothy Wordsworth  March 1st  1798 in Somerset

'The shapes of the mist, slowly moving along, exquisitely beautiful; passing over the sheep they almost seemed to have more of life than those quiet creatures.  The unseen birds singing in the mist.'

 

From Francis Kilvert  March 6th   1875  in Wiltshire

'A sudden and blessed change in the weather, a S.W. wind, bearing warm rain, and the birds in the garden and orchard singing like mad creatures.'

 

From D.H. Lawrence   March 8th  1916 in Cornwall

'It is still cold.   Snow falls sometimes, then vanishes at once.  Then the sun shines, some gorse bushes smell hot and sweet.'

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I glimpsed a child

 

on the kitchen chair

feet dangling

legs swinging

 

large brown eyes stared

from a dusty pale face

 

she didn’t smile or speak

 

about seven years old I thought

Syrian perhaps or Iraqi

her clothes once pink and green

now mud stained and torn

 

her silver bracelets sparkling

in the sunlight

 

I made her Moroccan mint tea

offered her cake

kissed her cold cheek

dried her tears

 

I fetched more sugar

but on return I saw

the chair was empty

the child gone

dissolved in the morning air

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia