I am going offline again for a few days. The mail software is damaged and the computer has various issues caused mainly by old age: slowness, stiffness in the gears, fits of irritation, mood swings, refusal to cooperate, irrational hatred of certain tasks, and a tendancy to fall asleep unexpectedly. The time has come to give in to the inevitable and trade it in while there’s still some life left in the old sod. Callous maybe, but my computer has become like a vital organ. It needs to work!
I’ll leave you with this short poem, illustrated by Vincent.
night breeze rustles,
perfume of roses,
so strong in the darkness,
and in the velvet sky,
Falling golden leaves
flutter of brown birds flocking
last red rose unfolds
White rose prefect ghost
haunts the dead garden mist-hung
scented white silence.
Red throat swells in song
red rose gathers the sweetness
suave scented beauty.
From the window
I see the roofs stretch far and orange brown
To nudge the blue skyline.
I hear the morning stillness
The cool green hush that rises from the garden
Waiting for the sun.
I smell cypress and pine
And the musky smell of damp earth
Of decomposing aromatic leaves.
I breathe the pale blue air
Tasting all the facets of the morning picture.
Remembering its delicate flavour
Its cool pastel tones
The gentle crooning of the turtle doves
To savour when the brash sun burns
And stirs the noisy life
Beneath the orange brown rooftiles.
Shut out the noise
Of traffic on the street
Music on the radio
And the neighbours’
In the tree
Over the wall
At the end of the garden
A blackbird sings.
I know a place where the roses blow
Where we’d lie and watch the clouds go by
At evening we’d listen to the linnet’s song
While the colours changed in the sunset sky.
I know a place where the river runs
Past a wild plum tree where the blackbird sings
And the dog rose perfumes the evening air
And the sky’s aflutter with swallows’ wings.
I know a place that was full of peace
Till you held my hand, told me not to cry.
Now the scent of rose and the blackbird’s song
Bring back the echo of your last goodbye.
River ravels rafts
Water-lashed broken branches
Gulls perch storm trophies.
The garden trembles
With Atlantic gusts—rose bows
Black cloud spews torrents
Rods of pewter rain slew slick
There are two reasons for this post. First: a lovely pic of the wistaria in the garden that I couldn’t post on Pinterest—it wanted to stand it on end.
Second: I wanted to see how Trixie asking for third breakfast came out in my new avatar.