family – don't confuse the narrator

a memory

Bank Holiday weekend gives me the opportunity to write an extra blog post.

While looking for something else entirely in my old files a few days ago, I came across a series of short prose pieces; I had forgotten writing them, but recognised them all, as they were based – some quite closely – on free-verse poems I’ve written.

One piece in particular has gone back and forth between poetry and prose a number of times since it originated as a children’s story nearly thirty years ago, being adapted to different forms and lengths depending on how and where I was going to use it.
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late

“Everything’s late this year,” said my aged mother, when I took her a cup of tea in bed this morning.

I thought that was rather unkind – it was only seven o’clock and who on earth expects their visitors to provide tea in bed before that on a Sunday?

But the theme has continued throughout the morning:
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flowers and thoughts

I’ve been staying with my mother over the weekend, which is why I was so late with the blog post yesterday, and again today. It’s not that there’s nothing to write, just that coffees, meals, washing up and word puzzles take up an awful lot of time if you let them.

My mother hasn’t been able to get out much recently, so when I went to the village shop for a paper, I took some photos to show her what was going on down the road. Here, then, are a few, mostly local, flower photos with some haphazard notes:

I thought it was April that was supposed to breed lilacs, but here May seems to be doing just that:

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to every thing there is a season

We’ve had plenty of grey and wet weather recently, but very little that has been really wintery. On Tuesday afternoon it was utterly glorious, so I sneaked out for a walk in the park. I tried to make the most of the time by also making phone calls, including one to my aged mother, who reminded me that it was Candlemas. Perhaps I should have known: the snowdrops – also known as Candlemas bells – had already been in full flower for a week or more.

I am extraordinarily fortunate in that my mother is a fount of country lore and traditions. The older she gets, the more she seems to remember of things she learned as a child.
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circles

Black jacket & red scarf — ready for the revolution

“Bad governments bring bad weather,” says my aged mother, complaining that she hasn’t been out of the house for the last ten days. “Roll on the revolution.”

“So, what are you doing to further the revolution?” I ask.

Mainly, I’m trying to distract her from her woes, but I do think that if you’re nearly 90 and want the revolution to come in your lifetime, it’d probably be a good thing to be pro-active about it.

At first, she doesn’t think there’s much an old woman like her can do.

Then, “I could carry a placard.”

This is good: she’s no longer thinking – or complaining – about how cold and wet it is.
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