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taking the long way home 2014-05-14 125

Here’s a poetic snippet.

Forgive me dear family, It’s no reflection on you.

I wrote this piece one June when, through no fault of anyone’s, not even my own, the yellow bicycle and I lived in a caravan for a time, beside my mothers apple tree.

For a while it caused some familial kerfuffle but as with all acute cases of mild kerfufflism, it cured itself with time and a sense of humour.

WHAT I SEE FROM MY CARAVAN WINDOW

After all the fuss 

my view

is not of my sisters house

or my mothers terrace

but of the chestnut tree,

frothy with ladies dressed in candlewick gowns

balancing on large green leafy hands.

Like Victorian acrobats they toss and sway and swoon hysterically,

as the summer breeze 

cause the chestnut leaves 

to quiver.

A squirrel sits and watches my mothers two dogs

and spits the odd beechnut in their direction

and they go wild and bark and attempt do the impossible

(I’ve yet to see them climb the tree but its not from want of trying).

To my left a single bee works the fading apple blossom,

ensuring that next month my view will be,

not of house or terrace or chestnut tree

but of apple.

Further left is the old duck pond, 

Who, almost dry from lack of use, is overgrown with yellow flags. 

Those sword like leaves no better able to defend that place than I,

as we watch with concern

the approach of the rampaging bindweed convolvulus arvensis.

(I’ve seen it devour a rusty bicycle in one sitting)

I fear it has its eye on my caravan

and will not be surprised to wake one morning

and find my self entangled in the blooming stuff.

the kerfuffle 2014-07-13 022

Meanwhile by the beech hedge,

overgrown with nettle and queen Anne’s  lace,

Sharon’s washing flapping.

Straight ahead the glass house stands,

with its tomatoes peppers and aubergines,

where Italian Antoinette,

who has no English, made her needs be known

as she gathered pots from distant corners of the garden

and filling them with clay,  pressed and prodded and planted.

Then, with capable hands on hips ordered them to grow.

I placed them reverently in the glasshouse

and later when she had gone

I watered them with care

(for fear she would return).

She did

On Skype!

and when she finished talking to her son,

held up a pot for her to see how well they had flourished

and she clapped her hands and smiled,

(a small distorted face in the corner of a large screen)

And all the while the finches flit by the old pear tree

where long ago we hung

and viewed the world from upside down.

THE END.

taking the long way home 2014-05-14 112

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