Poetry, pomegranate and persimmon

Prévisible, voilà ce que je suis. Il a suffi d'un jour de lumière cristalline à la porte de février pour que des mots s'en viennent. Après des mois de silence, soudain quelques poèmes tambourinent au portillon, des poings et des pieds, dégringolant comme Bifur, Bofur, Bombur et Thorin sur le paillasson de Bilbo... mais de…

Number one enemy

Just a short note. You may have noticed my propensity for mentioning slugs and snails. In fact, I believe doing so will strengthen my claim to be part of the great family of English / British gardeners. After all, this island could well be renamed Slugland. One of my first posts on this blog was…

The dead of Winter

January already. I have been thinking there seems to be no such thing as "the dead of Winter". Not these days, at least. Of course, the previous years have taught us that the coldest part of Winter might very well be hugging Spring rather than Autumn, and there are plenty of weeks left for the…

Autumn garden

I have been wanting to write about the garden for so long... A few notes in the Gardening Diary page is all I could manage. But leave it too long and then you don't know where to start, ending up with a disorganised post... Most garden blogs I follow have been stressing what an extraordinary…

A walk on the moors

Late August views from a Lancashire hill, which last April was resounding with the skylarks' song.           The heather was much more purple than can be seen on these pictures, but nonetheless fading.    

Garden (and pond) miscellaneous 3

Our small pond has been in function for 19 days now. During that time, we have had very little rain, almost nothing, and I feel increasingly anxious about it. The good news is, the liner doesn't seem to be leaking, in spite of the fact that it is irregularly supported underneath (very hard to backfill…

Jane, Paul and the tadpoles

The exceptional weather explains how little I blogged about gardening, in spite of a wild and unrequested desire to share everything that grows on my small plot - I was too busy outside, enjoying each day of sun as if it was to be the last. I can't say I remember such a sunny and…

Garden miscellaneous (1)

I've decided to stop pretending there is a theme to what I post about my garden, when all I want to do is to share pictures and let the joy spread. Hence the title. Today is, according to the weather forecast, the last day of sunshine. The mini-summer comes to an end, but, boy was…

May it last !

Few places are as beautiful as England when the sun shines as it does this week - it's that dazzling green. There are so many occasions of exaltation and gratitude that I feel dizzy. Walking accross the field to go to town, yesterday, I thought I would love to have a blog section called :…

Notes on skylarks, memory and happiness

Walking one morning on the Holcombe moors under a bright Spring sun. Distances are vanishing into a gleaming haze and on the banks bloom the first coltsfoot flowers. Up Moorbottom lane, the warm stones elicit sensations of Southern Alpine paths. Lancashire moors, Southern Alps, worlds apart ? Not to me. I walk, grateful for the…

O Spring where art thou ?

Now is the season when blackthorns turn into clouds. Upon meeting their blooming branches, I am never quite sure if it is them, or I, who take off for the sky. This old one, the top of which crowns the end of the path, between oak trunks, sings of Spring. Yet everything in my garden…

Peter

It is Holy Week. So many things have wanted to pour out of me this week, or come to words through me, and I haven't had the time, and I'm bursting at the seams. I am tempted to let some of them tumble down here in a most disorganised way. Perhaps, I should limit myself…

In the garden again !

Finally ! A sunny day ! The February big freeze was for me, who am lucky enough to live in a heated house, a welcome thing. I had not seen proper snow for what felt like an eternity, and my daughter had the joy of her first snowman. Being British, the schools closed for two…

Trying

And so my parents left Toulon, on the Mediterranean coast. They now live in a small prettyish town on the river Seine. Black alders grow on its banks, tall poplars heavily laden with gleaming mistletoe. There is a cold and beautiful medieval collegiate church which looks like Notre-Dame-de-Paris’ little sister. It is very far from…

Lullaby to a garden

  To my sleeping garden this weightless lullaby a quiet outlook from a frosty window As in grey winter light the blackbird is black and the grass is revealed with the rigour of morn As the sycamore gone still inhabits the sky and homeless the grey heron flies So my patience is wantless and serene…

First frost

  Mid-November On trees finally, their October gowns of liquid amber. Morning walk - blades and veins Seized by the meticulous hand of frost Lines from which Winter shall be drawn. Slowly Slumber befalls those plants which to Summer offer Largesse of smiles and flesh. I too Am awaiting the hour When darkness boils into…

Releasing a maple

On Saturday, the tree surgeon came and felled the heron's sycamore. He was a young man with hair as red as it comes and a very handsome smile. Did it make the fall easier ? My husband is still feeling hurt and guilty we had to bring it down.   Today, as night was creeping…

Forest

Will you, ere my demise Let me step inside you Brother oh my forest That on the purple paths love winds into your depths I might once again walk And marvel once again Still flowering your chest The vines of destinies Some glib life would confine to thin dreams But for your breath Nestled under…