Travelling in the UK, I seem to be in headless chicken mode, with no time to sit and think or write, and yet achieving very little. Yesterday, though, I took a walk , as it was a glorious, slightly blustery, English summer afternoon.
I’ve commented before on the monkey puzzle in my mother’s village, but I’d never seen it with cones before:
Two fragments from old poems written about the same time, and clearly written at this time of year:
From The language of flowers:
[…] Shocking pink
petunias shout aloud,
while pompom marigolds,
in shades of summer, shine
like a myriad cartoon suns.
From In due season:
The hennaed heads of marigolds
rubberneck from roundabouts
and corporation window boxes shout
with yellow pansies.
Today is a day of reflection prior to the Spanish elections tomorrow, and the Junta Electoral has reminded us that on such days la ley prohibe todo acto de propaganda – the law bans the staging of any act of propaganda or electoral campaigning.
That has been ruled to include the recent protest gatherings – las manifestaciones y concentraciones – across the country, so I suppose I must keep quiet and reflect. (But without concentrating.)
In Welsh, the colour word glas is frequently coupled with mountains and hills – think of all those places, roads, B&Bs, schools etc, called Bryn Glas – but in other contexts it’s probably best translated as ‘blue’ rather than green. Of course, looking at the mountains in the photo – which is much prettier if you click on it to see it full size – that makes some kind of sense. (Not that they are Welsh mountains; it’s the Sierra de Gredos seen from the south.)
Continue reading “colour me simple”
Silver dandelions bloom
on the moleskin waistcoat
of the night
(Thinking realistically, I know that they are a waste of money and that they frighten all the birds and animals, but I’m a sucker for fireworks. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a display – not even the patriotic red, white & blue of last Thursday’s royal wedding celebrations – without a broad smile on my face. One day I’ll dig out all the notes I’ve made over the years and write a proper poem on the subject.)
Continue reading “fireworks”
don't confuse the narrator 