IT IS REALLY ME

So it is over a year since the operation on my neck.

So much has happened.

My talented brother Steve died at the age of 85 and we had a wonderful send off for him.

In the garden we are waiting for the paths to be redone, we keep and lose gardeners, R has radically swept away veg beds but has recently been spreading the snowdrops yet more.

We are beyond the start of spring, the thrush and wren are belting it out and the woodpecker is drumming in the trees. We have had ducks on the pond and the heron most days for breakfast.

So to some pics - Fatsia in fine fettle

Camellia by the shed with both pink and white flowers

Clematis armandii loaded with flowers 

the wild daffs by the path in the wood

and one of the hellebores.

The weather has been WET!!! we have yet an other spring coming up in the lawn and everywhere is boggy. As I am limited to movement with a rollator there are areas inaccessible to me.

We are still waiting for hedgehogs to take up residence but have spied some  mice. My grandson Robin says there are newts in the pond.

So what to do, well Damson Press are publishing a pamphlet of my poems - I wonder when the poet laureate is retiring? But he is much younger than I.

Title poem -

THAT WAS THEN

Legs less limber, he walks the fells

In his head, sees things as they were,

Remembers trees now fallen, walls gone.

Where there was a path is bracken,

Chest high and laced with bramble,

Pasture is bog, fields scrub.

He thinks his way down to the beck

And climbs the fence, can almost smell

The sausages baked in the fire

His mother made, taste the cold water.

The brown stones in the river bed 

Are still slippery and hurt his feet.

And he can hear the raven call

As it sheds air from its wings

And falls whirling from a crag.

His collie nuzzles at his hand

And he strokes it’s head,

Takes a deep breath and smiles.

But that was then, and now

He puts the kettle on, makes tea,

Retrieves a biscuit from its tin,

Puts his feet up by the fire,

Gets out his iPad, opens Kindle,

And escapes from reality.

Time for a coffee . . . .