YOU COULD BE MISSED

YOU COULD BE MISSED

You could be missed.

Afterwards, she will speak

more than these centuries

of wedlock and its silence,

but you won't hear.

The words will come slow

at first,through her eyes bleeding,

resonantly, like dull hammers

where your eardrum should be;

you won't hear, I promise.

But she will speak, repeatedly,

will try to explain, forgive.

The time could come when

she will answer all her own

questions about love and things.

And, if she's honest,

you will be deeply missed.

But you shall never know.

by my late husband. Alex-- May 1972

THE CHILD

I see the child

in the garden, her head

filled with the wind,

and her eyes in the summer of children

bright as the sun;

I hear her laugh

in the garden, her mind

swallowed in dreams,

and her mouth in the learning of children

full of the sun.

I watch her dance

in the garden, her face

determined and lent,

and her limbs like the gallows of children

crossed in the sun

I love the child

in the garden, a voice

that I once knew,

and remember the growing of children

lost in the sun.

by my late husband ALEX written in the 70's

ALONE by Alex

We stand together where the earth
finds us, fairly close, could be
our fingers touch; two stones mating

and it's cold, instantly breakable.

I can't blow your blood
round if it stops,
we can only pretend. You should
be told there is a limit to this
heartbeat and looking like
the same piece of machinery;
that someone else will disconnect
the necessary organs, break off
the productive flow; that one half of us is
daubed with different time.
You should be told.

or perhaps you already know
and the craft today is how
you blindfold your tomorrow.

Maybe you see how separate we are,
even when our breath feels now
like one delicious thought.

copyright Alex May '72

A BLOGGERS' FLOWERY FAREWELL !

My present partner Chris, and I, are taking off for an adventure in our motorhome this weekend, to spend some time with no pressures or time limits. Chris has recently had a heart attack and needs the rest, and I, well, I just need some book time and scrabble time, with no TV bulletins about swine flu, nor politicians arguing about expenses abuse. I want to experience late mornings, early nights, meals outside, shorts and tee shirts, B-B-Q's, wandering, swimming, exploring, site-seeing, chatting, and stopping to smell the flowers on the way, etc etc.

Speaking of flowers I shall leave you will some beauties which I took last week at an animal park here in mid France......

Beautiful pink rhodedendrums

A darker variety!

Not sure what this is? Perhaps magnolia - I am hopeless!

Lovely pink and white heather!

Another gorgeous rhodedendrum this one a delicate cream colour!

But- I shall miss the internet, and the blogging , and, believe it or not, some of the soaps!! ( sad isn't it!) So I shall be back sometime !!

THE WORLD REALLY IS A STAGE

Nothing changes does it?


First time I have really read these words! I was surprised to see the french words creeping in on the last line!

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. At first the infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad, made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, in fair round belly with good capon lin'd, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and modern instances; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side; his youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide for his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Last scene of all , that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion; sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare

As You Like It, 2. 7

IMAGINE JOHN TODAY

IMAGINE

Imagine there's no heaven

its easy if you try

No hell below us

Above us only sky

ImAgine all the people

living for today

Imagine there's no countries

It isn't hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion too

Imagine all the people

Living life in Peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions

I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger

A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people

Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will live as one.

lyrics by John Lennon

You cannot read the lyrics of John Lennons' Imagine , without singing it in your mind, the haunting music just floods in! But it's the words that are shouting his outrage at life, and they are even more poignant today. He tried to make the world listen and care, but instead outraged the church, increased his fortune, and pushed him further forward, centre stage of the world! I wonder , had he lived, how would he view the world today?

On the 8th December 1980 I was visiting my husband in hospital following a major road accident. I heard the news of the assasination of John Lennon over the car radio just as I was leaving; I rushed back to the ward to Alex and we just wept, along with the entire world. What a loss!

THOUGHTS ABOUT A ROOM!

This following poem was written by my late husband in the '70 's....

THE ROOM.

A clock ticks,
twice a second in the vacant air,
it hits against the silence
of the room,and holds in defiance
the emptiness, the apparent nothing.
And tells of someone near.

The clock ticks,

a scarf liesdraped across a chair,cold silk not worn today, butused some time. But not todayso discarded it is still, still.Placed across the chair.

Clock's ticking,

still twice a second. Someone will know

what the time is, in this patient silence;

someone wants to know, someone not yet there

and the room waits silently.

Like the scarf across the chair.

Poem by Alex copyright

LIFE IN OUR GROUNDS!

My last posting was labelled " Death in our Grounds " ! It was a sad post and I want to counter-balance it with this post " Life in our Grounds "- because although we are devastated at losing so many trees, new and beautiful life is bursting forth everywhere and that is wonderful! I have no idea what the above tree is bit it does have the most magnificent blossom....

A large, but oh so delicate flower!

Even the grass this year is sporting purple flowers! I don't like to think of them as weeds!

These are lovely too, again I have no idea of their name, but they are growing everywhere in the woods in big luscious patches!

....and look at these little beauties, fragile, wild flowers growing ' willy-nilly'.....

... and how can we forget those stingy things, ouch!.......

.......but they have a beauty all of their own-- and they make an excellent nettle wine :)

Finally, keep your fingers crossed for this poor chap, he is hanging on in there!
We do have the 'proper' flowers too, but I thought you might appreciate the ' walk on the wild side' of my gardens today!