Presents

 Dear reader,

My parents didn't really "do'" Christmas.   They went to stay with friends and at thirteen years old I copied them.  I went to stay with my school friend Karen who lived in Derbyshire.  She lived in a beautiful house with a lake in the grounds, where in fact I caught my first fish, a small trout. Her parents were extremely kind to me and treated me as one of their own.  Her mother did a stocking for me and I was given lots of presents.  

But I have always had a problem with presents.  My mother didn't ever give me a wrapped present and my father certainly did no such thing.  But they weren't the presents I wanted as you will see if you read the poem.  Being loved and cared for by someone kind and generous are life's presents, they need no wrapping paper.  Better perhaps with simple brown paper and plain ribbon. Love is the best present you can give anyone, simply that.

                                                                                        *

From Gerard Manley Hopkins  December 9th 1868 in Surrey

'Honeysuckle out and catkins hanging in the thickets.'

From Nathaniel Hawthorne  December 11th 1855 in Lancashire

'This has been a foggy morning and forenoon, snowing a little now and then, and disagreeably cold....At about twelve there is a faint glow of sunlight, like the gleaming reflection from a not highly polished copper kettle.'

                                                                                       *

 

Presents

 

 I don’t want presents

tied and ribboned.

Encouragement doesn’t wrap

well in green tissue,

praise in paisley boxes

or love in thick gold paper.

I don’t want guilt

compressed into an envelope,

with cheque.

 

 

A parcel of thoughtfulness,

a parcel of interest,

a parcel of embracing,

a parcel of safety, were

the presents I hoped for

under the festive tree.

The presents I hoped for

which were not to be. 

 

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Perhaps it is a bit too early to wish you all a very happy Christmas.  But I do.  And I hope lots of love is spread thickly in your direction on Christmas Day and that you have a lovely time.

 

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

Leaving

 Dear Reader,

I feel much better today with the cough nearly gone. Although I have had cancer twice and other operations I didn't realize just how horrid it was feeling ill, unable to think or sleep or breathe.

Enough said.  Thank you all for your good wishes.

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A short piece of news today which I thought worth recording.  

 

A female king penguin in Britain's only breeding colony for the species is actually a male.  Keepers discovered this rather vital piece of information after EIGHT years.  

The true sex of Maggie, now renamed Magnus, was uncovered after staff at Birdland Park saw the bird attempt to mate with a male penguin.  Keepers sent one of the penguin's feathers for DNA testing and the results revealed that Maggie was in fact a male.

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From Nathaniel Hawthorne   December 11th  1855 in Lancashire

'This had been a foggy morning and forenoon, snowing a little now and then, and disagreeably cold....At about twelve there is a faint glow of sunlight, like the gleaming reflection from a not highly polished copper kettle.'

 

From Gilbert White   December 13th  1774 in Hampshire

'Ice bears: boys slide.'

    

                                                                      *

 

Leaving

 

The day she left

her heart hammered

tears streamed down her cheeks

 

the rain beat against the car windows

an east wind blew

the road was black ribbons.

 

She took a small suitcase.

It held a red skirt, two shirts, underclothes,

two cardigans,  a duffle coat

and three favourite books.

 

After twenty years of marriage

that was her spoils.

 

Oh, and the kettle.

 

                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

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When my dad came home

 Dear Reader,

I have had a chest infection, antibiotics which I very badly reacted to and a feeling of burning in my hands.  All very unpleasant.  I saw that Queen Camilla had had a chest infection and that she thought it was not easy to get rid of.  No it certainly isn't.  My cough lingers on and as soon as I think it has gone it comes back.  

I have been very interested in the Assisted Dying Bill.  I will not be having a good death at all.  One quarter of my lung has gone with lung cancer operation, and this does not spell well for breathing or anything else.  So I was thrilled that perhaps we will get the go ahead for choice in how we die.  Surely that is the right thing to do, give us the choice.

I am sorry that this has been such a dreary post, I will make amends next week I hope.

 

 

 

 

So just the poem this week:                                                                              *

 

When my dad came home

 he nodded off

in the old armchair,

any time,

forgot everything,

could name no names.

 

Tobacco smoke from woodbines

filled the house,

he drank malt whisky,

came home unsteadily from the pub.

 

He talked of cricket, he whistled

and hummed old country and western songs,

rocked in the rocking chair

and potted up red geraniums.

 

He ate junket and white fish

had headaches,

and he wept sometimes.

 

But we were good friends, my dad and I,

night times he told me stories,

and tucked me into bed.

I never asked him about the war,

and he never said.

 

                                                                                  *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

Collection

 Dear Reader,

I am not fully recovered so  it is just a poem this week.

                                                                              *

Collection

The little girl waits
peers down the road
sees the other children
collected

as mothers hug them
help them into cars
drive away for family teas
to houses where
warmth and love abounds

she puts her satchel down
takes out a sweet for comfort
a small tear rolls down her cheek
someone will remember surely
she thought

but the dusk gathered
and nobody came.

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia

Questions

 Dear Reader.

I have been under the weather so no blog this week.  Just a poem.

Questions

 

 

Were the summers different then,

did the sun shine more, when

wet and cloudy days were few, when

butterflies took wing, and warm winds 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?

 

 

 

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With best wishes, Patricia

Transformation

 Dear Reader,

Guinea fowl originated from West Africa where they have been bred and hunted for food for centuries.  They have been part of our lives for a very long time, there are even drawings of them on walls of pyramids.  The most popular being the Helmeted guinea fowl. 

Guinea fowl are adapted to roam in any kind of habitat.  Most of them prefer grasslands, thorn veld and agricultural land.  They do well in open areas. They are not migratory birds but the do move around more during the breeding season.  Their lifespan is the same as chickens, turkeys, pheasants, partridges, grouse,quail and peafowl.

Their lifespan is up to 12 years in captivity, 5 years in the wild.  The loud guinea fowl call makes them excellent "guard birds".  Guinea fowl are monogamous and mate for life in the wild.  The birds are friendly and make excellent watchdogs.  If kept alone they like to sit with their human keeper, but in flocks they will usually prefer their own types, like many animals.

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  November 10th 1800 in Westmorland

'I baked bread.  A fine clear frosty morning.  We walked after dinner to Rydale village.  JUpiter over the hilltops, the only star, like a sun, flashed out at intervals from behind a black cloud.'

 

From Thomas Hardy  November 13th  1872 in Dorset

'The first frost of autumn.  Outdoor folk look reflective.   The scarlet runners are dishevelled;  geraniums wounded in the leaf, open-air cucumber leaves have collapsed like green umbrellas with all the stays broken.

                                                                                   *

Transformation

 

Years later

I walked up to the fields

I held so dear to me,

in it, then, were two horses, ever close

ever grazing,

plump chickens, guinea fowl,

and in the summer months

a profusion of wild flowers

buttercups, daisies, clover, cowslips,

meadow sweet, grew there,

a small stream gurgled by.

 

But it had all gone.

 

Houses dotted the field now,

washing hung out on the line

flapping in the breeze,

children played in the gardens,

cars everywhere, litter in the street.

 

And is this progress?

 

people have to live somewhere,

 but nature is the sacrifice,

 

the loss,

the undoing.

 

                                                                              *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Small moments of warmth

 Dear reader,

I have often wondered where the saying:  'enough blue in the sky to make a sailor's trouser' comes from.  Apparently it was believed by sailors that if they saw two patches of blue sky in a cloudy morning, the day would bring good weather.  Dutch sailors wore wide trousers the same blue as the sky, hence the saying.

It is thought that British and American sailors first wore bell-bottomed trousers in the 19th century because it made it easier to snag a man who had fallen overboard.   The wide legged design of flares made it easier for sailors to remove the trousers when wet and roll them up when working in  muddy conditions.

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My sister and I loved going to Yarmouth beach for picnics and my mother would only take us if she saw a little sun and a blue sky. This, I have to say, wasn't very often as the Norfolk weather was not tropical, in fact I seem to remember lots of rainy days. In those days we lived in a small cottage near to a river and spent much time capturing tadpoles and riding our ponies.  And of course trotting through the lanes with Joey in harness. Joey was rather fat and not too keen on those expeditions, sometimes he refused to go ahead at all and needed coaxing.

                                                                                     *

From Richard Jefferies  1878 November 3rd in Surrey

'The horse-chestnut buds at end of boughs; tree quite bare of leaves;  all sticky, colour of deep varnish....Still day: the earth holds its breath.'

 

From James Woodforde   1795 November 6th in Norfolk

'There was a most violent gale of wind this morning early about 3 o'clock, continued more than an hour.   It waked me. It also shook the house.  It greatly frighted our maids in the garrett.  Some limbs of trees blown down in my garden.  Many windmills blown down.'

                                                                                   *

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