I was a brittle piece of old oak After suffering my three strokes Which had left me in a dim coal mine Where I was a fish out of water Left hanging on the line To shudder and totter
Recovery was a gradual incline That felt like a slippery alpine But I kept on thinking Everything would be fine If I never stopped dreaming Of redefining myself, on cloud nine
In my adaptable mind I have thrown myself a new lifeline Via a bundle of woolly Canadian twine And it is now my time To enjoy a new bed of roses and wine
I’ve been having computer problems lately, and I’m frustrated with Microsoft’s “Error” shutdowns. So, I decided to spend the day in my courtyard garden. I had already purchased two plants to pot in my empty hanging baskets: a Fuchsia Hybrid (“Flash” with a magenta and red flower) and a Phlox Subulata (‘ McDaniels Cushion’ with a pink flower). Firstly, I had to install a beam from which the baskets could hang! Anyhow, without going into too much detail, four hours later the task was completed. The main purpose of my project is to provide ‘Theo’ with some colourful companions over his arduous winter journey.
‘Theo’, bottom, left of centre, looking up at the two hanging baskets.
This evening’s photos of the Fuchsia (“Francis”), Phlox Subulata (“Daniel”), and “Theo”
I saw a mellow sun Melt into a grey sky I saw a shallow moon Fall under a dark curtain I sliced the sickly atmosphere With the Reaper’s shadowy sickle
I heard a little wattlebird Tip-toeing through the broken trees I listened to a killer whale Crawling along a black, oily beach I felt the stained seashells Squelch into my murky footprints
I was dozing on a bed of tanbark And after my brown eyes opened I wondered. Was I having a nightmare Or was my dark apparition real?
I am always thinking of the many seasons that have been, and those that are gone … Presently, I am thinking of the winter season ahead for ‘Theo the Tomato Tree’
Do Snails Have Toes?
Autumn recedes nestles down below the ground’s leafy gown
Winter howls at the door uninvited frost clings to the chrome toes cringe on the cold floor
Bed-sheets creak and groan alone, I moan icy teardrops and salty snowflakes do not stop
Spring waits under the powdery snow and I wonder do snails have toes?
Twilight’s Burly orange sky Bedazzled my eyes When The hessian horizon And the sun’s waxing resin Flung Streams of yellow beams Across the paddock’s Furrowed seams
Golden ponds Flooded Over the meadow But did not drown The field’s residing Scarecrow
The arbitrary warrior Accepted the world’s Rotary mirror And innately smiles About being a human’s Privileged curator