Moon

The moon with its great

One-eyed-insect glare

Bathes the garden tonight,

Even the moths seem to be

Hiding from her searchlight glow.

 

Perhaps they have all

Upped wings and beaten

Their way high up toward

This beacon, so low in the sky

On this late summer’s night?

 

Or do they all meet secretly,

Under the leaves and bushes,

Whispering quiet thoughts to each other?

Plotting ways to make contact

With this great eye-in-the-sky.

 

The moon waits patiently

For the sun to end its vigil

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Sunday in an English country garden

"Alright shorty we give up already: where the duck are you?"
“Alright shorty we give up already: where the duck are you?”

Waking early in summer is a joy, what’s not to like? It’s warm, the sun is with us most of the day and you just feel a little lighter, brighter and keen to explore. Well I do. Not sure about my flatmate, crawled out of the bedroom a half hour ago then crawled straight back in deciding it was too early.

Today, I’m paying it forward as many people do.

There’s an old country garden that needs some attention; lawns will be mowed, edges trimmed and weeds banished. All of which is a bit much for the septagenarian owner, but she cooks a mean roast when she’s not napping in her summer house.

Here’s a couple of snaps from her lovely Surrey garden, the colours this time of year are simply brilliant.

Sunday’s are meant for an English country garden and a cracking Sunday roast. Nice and slow, next week will be hectic…

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