The other day, I posted a differently cropped version of the photo above on Instagram with the caption:
Blossom above my head;
clouds in the sky.
Since then, I’ve been niggling and tweaking and wondering whether and how I can turn that into something a little more poetic.
Continue reading “reductio ad absurdum”
I wasn’t up early enough to bathe in the dew this May Day morning, but I did go for a walk later on. The hawthorn is just coming into bloom, so I had a look at what was happening in the hedgerows and elsewhere to celebrate the arrival of the May Queen.
Some fifty plus years ago, when I was a little girl, my mother made my brother a butterfly net out of a bamboo garden cane, a hoop of wire and an old net curtain. I don’t know how often he used it, but I suspect it wasn’t that often.
Whether he tired of it in the first few weeks, or whether it was when it came out of the shed on the second summer and he was off on his bike in the park with his mates, somehow, I managed to inherit it.
Continue reading “small blues”
It’s by no means the first time I’ve noticed or commented on it, but, once again, I am reminded that, wherever you are, there are different ways of looking at things.
There is nothing in the least bit attractive about the local bus station, car park and parade of modern shops. And yet if you turn around, you get this lovely view of daffodils and an inaccessible little door in the old stone wall, which I believe is a remnant of the 14th century town fortifications.
It’s all about perspective – and often that’s a personal choice.
I wrote yesterday in “monsters and fairies” about stories that parents tell to their children about events that happen in the children’s lives before they are really old enough to form personal memories. Those stories can take on a life of their own and become formative parts of the child’s story.
There are other personal stories that parents tell their children, of course, including ones they recall about their own childhoods. And then there’s a step further back along the chain to the stories that our parents were told about their early childhoods by their own parents.
Continue reading “fill in the details”
don't confuse the narrator 