Wednesday, 17 June 2020


        Getting away for a few moments from the savage brutality of the state, the inherent injustices in the system, the millions in dire poverty, and the callous bloodshed, all pouring from a system that is perpetrated by the greedy, wealthy, powerful few, who control the levers of power, my mind floats to the garden.
      Because of my age and my many underlying medical problems, I have been "shielding" for roughly three months. So this meant that I spend a lot of time in the house, in the garden, short walks in pubic parks and of course escapes on the bike, (very short runs). The garden has been a tremendous pleasure to me. I love roses, and have grown them for years. My memory tells me that my roses always come into bloom round about the middle of July, a month or so behind the south of England, though I wouldn't be surprised if I got that wrong, my ageing memory. However, this year I'm amazed that here we are in the middle of June and we have roses in full bloom. Just in case you might think that is all we have in the garden, those frivolous roses, in the back garden Stasia has an array of vegetables and some fruits.
     While sitting in the garden, more often than usual, I also notice small things, like the bees, they seem to be programed  to go for certain colours. For example, I have watched a couple flirting from purple flower to purple flower, ignoring other colours, while others go from yellow flower to yellow flower, and another that only seems to prefer white. If so, is this a evolved process of efficiency rather than them randomly chasing the same ground as others. Or does the hive have a regimental sergeant major, who barks out their orders as they leave the hive. I hope it is the former, as I believe that bees are much more intelligent than us.
   Another thing I discovered while sitting still in the garden, we have a bubble-bee hive. We watched the bees hover over a tiny hole in the grass and then disappear down, and others to come up from the hole and fly off. That wonderful discovery is thanks to my "shielding", so I suppose I should be grateful for that.

      In keeping with the old age and pottering about in the garden, a wee poem.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall.

I can’t help but watch him
that old man
as he staggers across the room
with that unusual gait
punctuated by the odd stumble
I hear his groans and feel his pain
sometimes with a few profane words
he drags himself from the couch or chair
pauses for a moment to regain his balance
I sense his reluctance to bend down
and pick things off the floor
I’m fascinated by those hands
light brown withered looking bony structures
with their pronounced veins
running along the back of them
and up his slim arms
I sense his annoyance
that they’re not as strong as they used to be
I feel his regret
that he can’t do the things he once did with ease
I often think
that to have lived that long
he must have a chest full
of memories and experiences
that should be worth something
but what puzzles me most
is when
I look in the mirror
I see him and not me.

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