Yay! Finally some time off for a week! I might even do a spot of emergency gardening (aka ‘keeping things under control’), but I doubt that my garden will ever look as pretty as the ones below, unless I bring a proper professional gardener in.
It’s not just the British gardens that are beautiful, of course. Here are some more hidden gardens all over the world, where you can forget about the hustle and bustle of daily life.
This was a 5 minute writing exercise that I was set in a writing group, based on a photo prompt. I’ve been unable to find this picture again, so you will have to take my word for it: it was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of a Cuban woman in white traditional dress, smoking a cigar, looking out of the window. She is flashing an insolent smile straight at the camera. Some makeshift flowerpots are teetering precariously on her windowsill.
The thyme is doing well this year. Grown all over, in a hurry like a virgin about to be married, all ready to jump into the nearest pot. Majoram, now that was a tricky one, hasn’t sprung the smallest green shoot. Rowdy waste of time. But who said aloe vera would never make it in a tin? Just bore’em and stuff’em, I always say. Look at it now: it’s tall, it’s spiky, it sucks up my smoke like a greedy suitor.
Speaking of suitors, it’s nearly time for him to pass by again for the day. He can’t keep away. He thinks he’s so irresistable in his shuffling walk-by, with his fancy hat, his spit-polished shoes, his thin moustache. I’m sure he can dance and gaze into my eyes for days. All he needs is a little feeding, watering, to grow into the man he could become. Do me proud, like my plants, every day.
This time there will be a pause in his shuffle. This time he will look up. And learn to linger.
void of treasure, dry of sap.
The lotus seed burst not into bloom that year.
Bit by bit they chiselled
away at its proud likeness.
How hurtful, how convenient
when friends hurl friends to oblivion.
in a world of its own hating,
we shivered with the knowing,
we struggled with the touch.
The gush has settled down into a mere trickle
and mud is silting oddly the channels of delight.
We sigh and add more caustic
as inspiration dies.