Butterflies

I’m sorry, butterflies. The buddleias are in such a sorry state, like the rest of the so-called garden and it’s my fault. I’m not responsible for the lack of rain or the heatwave – did I miss that? – but we went away for weeks on end, leaving plants to look after themselves. Garden neglect. No sooner were we back from our travels south, when we were off in the caravan. We didn’t go far, probably only a half hour walk away from home to Marton Mere for a Haven break. It wasn’t a holiday, though being there made it feel like one. We left our house to the mercy of the company entrusted to replace our damp course. We relaxed with ice creams, beer and whatever was on the menu in the Boathouse, then returned home to a job perfectly done. Thanks, team. Within days we were missing caravan life and quickly organised a trip north to join family and celebrate our wedding anniversary. The garden was beyond all hope, so I left it.

Buddleia, white blooms and quite majestic, fared better than the purple or pink and a few butterflies were enjoying themselves, but not the abundance we’ve known in previous summers. Those summers when we’ve stayed at home and I’ve tended the garden properly.

One dry day when the air was still, I spent time chopping up bramble that had crept along the ground. At last, a path for me to reach the marigolds and dead-head them.

Not a single nasturtium has graced us. Lack of water, so down to my absence again. The grandchildren were fascinated with watching the caterpillars that fed from them, growing from tiny to huge. The survivors would go on to become butterflies. The grandchildren have grown out of the story, ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’, but I haven’t. It continues forever in the infant’s library I help to look after.

When I started school, age 4, 1959, my coat peg had a picture of a butterfly above it. Each child could identify their peg by a picture. Children have names, now. I would have recognised my name at the time, but it’s just the way things were done in those good old days.

I found this poem,

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted,
And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said, ‘Do not eat the poor butterfly.’
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing,
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry 1888 - 1923

The butterfly cross stitch is one of mine, from when I could see what I'm doing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x      

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Spontaneity

 

Spontaneity is not my strong point. I’m more Ms Stayput and keep cautious. I leave impulsiveness to those with the confidence to either know what they’re doing, or not care about the outcome because we only live once. That’s fine. I’m a happy soul with my plans noted on my calendar, allowing for plenty of rest time between events. By events, I really mean appointments and regular weekly or monthly meetings. I have a visit to the dentist coming up and as the surgery is in town, it might be tempting to pop to M & S or the Hound’s Hill for a bit of Christmas shopping. That could be classed as spontaneity for me, I suppose.

 The weekend before last, we had a few days away in our caravan, planned, of course. We met up with family for some relaxing time together, which it was. Disappointingly, the pub within walking distance no longer serves food, so we all managed with our own supplies and looked for somewhere further afield for the next day. A lovely hotel in nearby Lockerbie provided the answer, with its fabulous restaurant open to non-residents. This was probably the last time we’ll get out in the caravan this year. The chilly autumn nights and dark tea-times have no appeal to me, regardless of how beautiful the view across a loch might be from the caravan window. Never say never, though, someone might have an impulse to squeeze one more trip in. It won’t be me. We’ll be cosy in our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway soon and I am happy to wait for that.

 During this week, there was a moment when a decision was made that could, from my point of view, be a spontaneous thing. Christmas Day has always been at home and over the years the family has expanded, which is wonderful. The family is my world, but Christmas can be hard work for me, so, giving everyone plenty of notice, we told everyone that we’re not hosting Christmas Day this year, but we will arrange a family buffet between Christmas and New Year. We hadn’t made plans for ourselves until The Corner Flag popped up on Blackpool FC Hotel festivities. Spontaneity stepped in. Sorted.

 I found this poem by Bryan Wallace on Poem Hunter and thought it apt for me, 

Diary with a little pencil stuck in spine-
Each day planned with metronomic precision.
Nothing left to chance at all - can't take the risk.
Plan each day and leave nothing at all to chance.
Run our lives like a well-oiled machine.
Think to the future - pension plans and
Rainy day saving funds - we best be prepared.
Each think carefully planned - no nasty surprises -
It is the best way - we are told.

But what if we leave life to chance, to allow
Room for at least a little bit of spontaneity?
To allow space to have a little fun
When un-expected opportunity should arise?
To enjoy the chance encounters with the people
That we meet as we travel along life's highway.
To take the opportunity to kick the stray football
Back tot he kids playing in the park.
To enjoy the random things which happen -
When we allow ourselves to live in the moment
And not at some point in the future -
Planning for some disaster that most probably
Will never happen!

 Bryan Wallace 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Navigation - Sat-nav or Map?

“Navigation? Simple. There’s an app for that.”

I have my own ‘app’ in the form of an enlarged, easy to read road atlas. It is far better than the rude interruptions from the voice of the sat-nav in the middle of a conversation and making me lose my drift. It’s more reliable than the sat-nav, as well.

We used a sat-nav, or whatever it is on my husband’s phone when we were touring in our caravan last summer. Travelling from The Machars in Dumfries & Galloway to Maybole in Ayrshire, I wasn’t looking forward to the A77 and A78 which are always busy at any time of day. I wasn’t driving, but it’s still worrying as a passenger, ahem, back seat driver. I was saved the anxiety by the route the sat-nav chose to take. Miles and miles of single-track, harem scarem road, cutting through the lesser known depths of Galloway Forest Park, eventually releasing us into the freedom of rural Ayrshire. Not the best road for towing a caravan and we felt relieved to be unscathed, and alone. In all those miles we hadn’t encountered another vehicle. Drivers were either wise to avoid that way, or they knew we were out. It was a bad experience which made us wary of the sat-nav and we kept to the A roads after that.

On a visit to the Outer Hebrides – no caravan, just car and cottages – we travelled north from touring the Uists to base ourselves in the Isle of Harris to explore Harris and Lewis. We were in a hilly area. The highest mountain in the Outer Hebrides was near, The Clisham at 799 metres, standing majestically over our cottage. Out one day for a drive and a look around, I was navigating using an OS map. We were aiming for the west coast. I was struggling with reading the tiny details on the map and soon thought we’d – I’d – gone wrong somewhere and couldn’t find any landmarks matching the map. We were on the cliff-edge road of a mountain and I was so scared that I couldn’t speak. I was literally stunned into silence. There was relief eventually when we found ourselves descending towards a small beach, a couple of cars and a handful of people. With map in hand, I explained that we’d become lost and sought their help. This lovely family came to our aid, turned the map the right way up, and pointed to where we were. They set us back on the right track, which involved a return journey back up the mountain road, but at least we were on the inside lane this time. I hope they didn’t ridicule us too much when they went home to Scandinavia. Oops. Don’t trust me with a hard to read OS map in the Hebrides, or anywhere in the world.

When I was in junior school, probably aged nine or ten, we were tasked with doing a project on something of our own choice. Girls favoured pop music or fashion. Boys chose cars or the armed forces. There were other things picked, but looking back, how gender categorised we all must have been. Of all the things in the world, I picked compasses. This was because there was a picture of a mariner’s compass on the front of a world atlas at home, and it fascinated me. The project didn’t get beyond two items, the mariner’s compass and a Girl Guides one. Good drawings, though, even if I say so myself. We’ve come a long way since navigating by a compass was all we had, especially at sea. The digital era has taken us over in the name of progress.

I’ll stick with the easy to read road atlas, even if it does weigh a ton on my knee in the car. I’m about to navigate us to Scotland then to Warwickshire, so I’ll be missing, but hopefully not lost. Back soon.

 Navigation

Lost in South Harris
When the map was upside down
And we got mixed up.

Study the road map
Give confident directions
And have a Plan B.

Work out the distance,
Choose where to make cmfort stops
To break the journey.


Rude interruption,
Strict, assertive instructions.
Who needs a sat-nav?

PMW 2024

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Arboreal - A Wild Night

 

The Friendly Tree

I’ve found a place beside a friendly tree,
Where I’ll hide my face when the world hurts me,
For the tree will never hurt; I shall love it to the end;
It shall have a dear, dear name:
“My true and silent friend.”
                                                                    Annette Wynne

The weather had been pleasant for a few days. There was a hint of warmth in the weak sun when it crept between the clouds and the temperature was a constant 17 degrees centigrade. We set off for a short break in our caravan, to an unfamiliar site just north of Garstang. Rural and surrounded by trees was the main appeal, besides the practical requirement for us, fully serviced pitches. A pub with restaurant was only a five minute drive away. Handy for dinner. Luckily, we’d finished setting everything up before the rain came, the weather breaking as we expected. By nightfall the wind had increased. The trees took on a loud wildness, branches swaying, leaves rustling. Psithurism. Almost stormy, certainly scary. Tucked up in my sleeping bag, worrying about the possibility of being crushed by a falling tree, something brought to mind stories from my childhood, in my Enid Blyton era. The Enchanted Wood, The Magic Faraway Tree and all of those books which captured my imagination. I wanted to live in one of those tiny houses at the top of the tree. I think I still do. By morning, the wind had lessened to a breeze and the rain continued. We didn’t get to sit outside, but it was a nice break.

Galloway Forest Park is perfect for a stroll or a drive, with lots of woodland wildlife, hidden from view. Some areas are dense with pine trees. It is interesting to go off track and just listen to nature. It’s somewhere we like to visit on our regular trips, though we need to stay on the road and in the car these days. I’ve never seen a red squirrel, but live in hope.

Lots of grey squirrels live in my neighbourhood. There’s a regular, well-fed visitor to my garden and I’ll often find buried monkey nuts, which I try not to disturb too much. I think they come from tree-lined East Park Drive, or the trees on the local field.

I love this poem,

Poplar Trees are Happiest

Poplar trees are laughing trees,
With lilting silver call.
Willow trees droop weepingly
And never laugh at all.
Maple trees are gorgeous trees
In crimson silks and gold;
Pine trees are but sober trees,
Aloof and very old.
Black-oak trees walk sturdily,
And live oaks eager run;
The sycamores stand lazily
Beneath the summer sun.
But poplar trees are laughing trees
Wherever they may grow –
The poplar trees are happiest
Of all the trees I know.

                                  John Russell McCarthy.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Hot and Cold

How lovely it was to spent time in a warm and cosy lodge gazing out on to a wintry landscape. It was very cold outside, definitely hat, scarf and gloves needed even for a quick nip out to feed the birds. Coming back inside to a welcome hot drink was a perfect reward and I would sip it while watching for the birds to notice the replenished feeders. Being prepared for any amount of snow, ice or blizzard, we were stocked up with extra food and provisions, but coastal Dumfries and Galloway has its own micro climate and despite the minus degrees temperature most of the time, we had sunshine and blue skies every day and the local roads remained passable. We saw a fine layer of snow at Galloway Forest Park on one of our adventures. Of course, all good things come to an end and after a couple of restful weeks we were driving home for Christmas – go on, sing – through patches of freezing fog on the M6 with the snowy Cumbrian hills looking majestic in the clear bits. Family and festivities beckoned in Blackpool.

I was nine years old when my family’s second move to Blackpool became our permanent one. Dad’s wished for ‘pub on the prom’ was our home. My sister was still in a cot and we shared a big bedroom right at the front with an amazing sea view. The place was just a pub with three separate bars, but was originally a residential hotel. There were many nooks and crannies to explore but what fascinated me was the wash-basin in our room. It was fixed to the wall in the corner with a frame fastened to the floor on a square of lino. The frame provided a small towel rail. The taps were labelled ‘Hot’ and ‘Cold’. Mum and Dad’s room had one and so did another bedroom that was right next to the bathroom. At the time I thought that was hilarious. Our kitchen was miles away on another corridor. This wing had more bedrooms with wash-basins, which accommodated grandparents on their visits. The two floors above were out of bounds to me, but I had dared to have a peep and decided that whatever was up the curtained stairs was far too scary. Fast forward a few years to teenage and some of us did go off exploring. Very creepy.

A recent adventure was ‘Two Go Off in a Caravan’. This is our retirement asset to enable us to take off where we want and when we want to, within reason, while we can. We got it at the beginning of November, intending to have a couple of short trips in it before packing it away for the winter and before we disappeared to Scotland. In the end we only managed one weekend away, but it was good fun and a learning curve. On the second day, we, well ok, not me, figured out ‘hot and cold running water’ which was bliss to wash up without boiling the kettle. I expect we will have forgotten what we’ve learnt by the time spring comes, though we’ve made notes.

I found this from a Scottish poet, Alan Jackson,

The Three

In the depth of winter
In the dark of night
There was only one house,
Only one light.

I walked down the path,
I knocked on the door.
I do not think
I’d been there before.

Music and light,
Three smiling faces.
I was by the fire
In seven paces.

Oh what a blossom
Oh what a feel!
They showed me a seat;
I joined in their meal.

After we’d eaten
We cleared out the things;
‘One of us plays,
One of us sings,

One of us dances.’
‘Then I will too,’
I laughed and looked,
‘I’ll dance with you.’

The stars in the window,
The birds in the trees,
The fire in the chimney,
We were all these.

The sun in the morning,
The moon on its way,
Roses and silver,
Nothing was gray.

A rich deep blue,
A scarlet bloom,
Like living liquids,
Filled the room.

Then we sat down
And talked till dawn.
Our eyes were shining.
We could not yawn.

‘Where were you going?’
‘Coming to you.’
‘But you didn’t know.’
‘Of course, I knew.

I know what is
And what is not.
I know the cold,
I know the hot

I know what quickens,
I know what kills;
I know what drains;
I know what fills

When I couldn’t see
I followed my nose.
When I couldn’t hear
I followed my toes.’

‘Then many a bump
And many a smack
I expect you got
On such a track.’

‘I certainly did.
I’m covered in bruises.’
‘You’re not, you know.
Who wins, loses.

You are human
And we’re pleased
That you found us,
Though we teased,

But you must go
You cannot stay;
Soon it will be
Another day.

And you are called
Back to your place:
Great is the work
Of the human race.

Now, don’t be sad.
You won’t forget.
And we are there
In dry and wet;

In hot and cold,
Dull and shine,
In wither and bloom’
You’ll see our sign.

Whenever you look
With light in your eyes
You’ll almost see,
And hear our cries.’

The house was fading,
The fire was gone;
It was the earth
I was standing on.

‘Goodbye goodbye,
True hearts can’t fail!
Goodbye, goodbye,
Green is the trail!’

It was very cold
And rosy blue
I heard the cock
A doodle do.

I saw some smoke
And birds in trees
I heard their laughter
In the breeze.

I wasn’t sad
For I understood
My friends were alive
In water and wood.

A wonderful fire
Flamed through my heart.
I’d walking to do;
I made a start.

Alan Jackson, b 1938

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Summer - Making Memories

It is here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Proper sultry, summer weather of hot sun and blue skies from dawn until dusk, which is around nine-thirty, and I would like to say it goes on day after day. It won’t. I think this is two days of heatwave, then rain, possibly storm, and cooler temperatures. My house is currently thirty-four degrees and I feel sticky and uncomfortable.  The heatwave may not be completely responsible.  After two and a half years of sticking to guidelines and looking out for myself and family, Covid has got me. I tested positive at the weekend after feeling unwell for a couple of days. There are no signs of recovery yet. When it cools down, I’ll rest in the garden, admiring the fruits of my labours, especially the planter I’ve called Tangerine and White.

The summers of our youth were everlasting and full of ice cream, the park, the beach and sometimes a holiday. Our holidays tended to be spent with family, when my dad could escape from running the pub for more than two days together. It was always good to spent time with our cousins. They are in the USA now, but they lived in London and the south of England when we were all children. My sister and I loved their big garden offering lots of room to play, even space for badminton.

For years home was a pub on South Promenade. We had the beach on our doorstep. Day after day we were there, not a care in the world and not a thought for how lucky we were. Someone would be with us until I, being the eldest, was considered old enough to take us across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines. My sister would choose an ice lolly or ice cream. I loved a portion of shrimps in a tiny paper bag. I can still taste how delicious they were. Better than anything sweet.

When our children were young, summer holidays meant the long road trip to Pembrokeshire and a couple of weeks staying in a static caravan. It was owned by family members who didn’t use it during the busy months of July and August, but were very happy for us and others to enjoy it. We were so privileged. We had holidays that wouldn’t have happened if not for the generosity of our extended family. Our children, and us have great memories of those wonderful times.

Making memories is what we’ll be doing in a few weeks when we take our grown up children and all our grandchildren to have a blast at Butlin’s. It’s our treat as grandparents and a one-off. It will be fun for all of us, of course, but it is centred on giving the grandchildren a fabulous time. My grandparents used to take me to Butlin’s when I was small, before I had a sister. Now I’m the nanna. It’s my turn.

Allow me the indulgence of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets,

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Seashore - Beside the Sea

                                                    Isle of Vatersay, Outer Hebrides

I was so fortunate, as a child, to have a wonderful sea view from my bedroom window. My father had his wish granted, to run a pub on Blackpool promenade and the family had landed in paradise. It was the beginning of summer and I remember it as blue skies and a sun that turned orange and slipped into a shimmering sea. We went on the beach, a lot. My sister and I played there, all day sometimes.  I went out for walks on the shoreline at dusk with my mum. It was our time on a calm evening, quiet, thoughtful, listening to the gentle waves. We strolled between South Pier and Waterloo Road, not far, just in front of where we lived. We would look for creatures in the tangle of seaweed that marked the tideline, but we only found bits of dead crab. It was our mother-daughter bonding. Moments that became special memories to treasure. Even now, many years later, I still think of that stretch of beach as mine.

Although born inland, I’ve always been drawn to the coast. Any coast will do. When our children were young we had family holidays in Pembrokeshire where every seashore is stunning. There are lots of sandy beaches to play on, also the fun of finding a way over the boulders to poke about in rock pools at Wiseman’s Bridge, or skimming stones at Amroth. We covered the English East Coast between Redcar and Withernsea, where the North Sea claims a bit more of the land each year. On a returning visit to Skipsea we were shocked to discover how much land had broken away, including a road that we had used.

The Scottish seashores are breath-taking. I could spend all day looking at Ailsa Craig from the Ayrshire coast. We stayed in a caravan at Embo on the Scottish North East coast where we stepped out directly on to the beach and walked along the shoreline every day. It is somewhere I hope to return to. The most stunning seashores I have found so far are in the Outer Hebrides. At South Uist, the sand shines silver and white, shells are bleached white with the sun – I brought some home and keep them in a jar.

I’ll be on my travels again soon. It’s time to breathe some Scottish air.

Here is Simon Armitage,

 

 

The Stone Beach

 

A walk, not more than a mile

along the barricade of land

between the ocean and the grey lagoon.

Six of us, hand in hand,

 

connected by blood. Underfoot

a billion stones and pebbles-

new potatoes, mint imperials,

the eggs of birds-

 

each rock more infinitely formed

than anything we own.

Spoilt for choice - which one to throw,

which to pocket and take home.

 

The present tense, although

some angle of the sun, some slant of light

back-dates us thirty years.

Home-movie. Super 8.

 

Seaweed in ropes and rags.

The weightless, empty armour

of a crab. A jawbone, bleached

and blasted, manages a smile.

 

Long-shore-drift,

the ocean sorts and sifts

giving with this, getting back

with the next.

 

A sailboat thinks itself

across the bay.

Susan, nursing a thought of her own

unthreads and threads

 

the middle button of her coat.

Disturbed,

a colony of nesting terns

makes one full circle of the world

 

then drops.

But the beach, full of itself,

each round of rock

no smaller than a bottle top,

 

no bigger than a nephew's fist.

One minute more, as Jonathan, three, autistic,

hypnotised by flight and fall,

picks one more shape

 

and under-arms the last wish of the day -

look, like a stone - into the next wave.

 

Simon Armitage

 

 

 

                                                       South Uist, Outer Hebrides

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Dusk - Wales at Sun-down

We enjoyed fabulous family holidays in Pembrokeshire when the children were small. I’ve mentioned before that we were fortunate to have the use of a static caravan on a private site near Saundersfoot, thanks to the generosity of family members. Every August we loaded up the car, secured luggage on the roof rack, and set off on the lengthy journey. It took most of the day. We aimed for a picnic lunch at Bala, a break at Aberaeron, then onward in time to catch the Co-op at Narberth for some groceries. If we missed it, there was the Spar shop in Saundersfoot where we could buy essentials, but first it would be a chippy tea either in the café or on the harbour. It was a bit quicker on the motorway, but it took us miles away and where’s the fun in that? There’s a ‘harem scarem’ road through the southern parts of Snowdonia with a sheer drop down one side and warnings of falling rock that we wouldn’t want to miss for the world. It would be dusk by the time we arrived, more often than not.  It was lovely to unpack and settle in, listen to the sounds of the sea and look forward to the days ahead. The children, excited as they were, couldn’t wait to sleep in the narrow beds in their tiny caravan bedroom.

Safe beaches, clear water to paddle in and lots of time to play. Folly Farm, the Dinosaur Park and all the castles we could find.  Every day was an adventure and it was good to re-visit favourite places, especially some literary interest.  Laugharne, on the River Taf estuary in Carmarthenshire is the home and resting place of Dylan Thomas. I could imagine him looking out from the windows of the Boat House, watching the night tide slowly fill the river and seeing beyond the castle to the flicker of faint lights in the houses of the town as the darkness came. Under Milk Wood. I can hear his voice. Well, Richard Burton then, but it’s Dylan’s rich vocabulary.

 After a busy, fun-filled day it was perfect to relax with an ‘after tea’ ice-cream on Saundersfoot harbour as the sun disappeared into the hills behind us. With the heat of the day gone and the air feeling fresh it was comfortable to wander around the seafront, or go on the beach and dip our toes at the water’s edge. We might walk along to the far end of the harbour where the local fishermen were casting their lines over the height of the sea wall hoping for a plentiful evening catch.

Quiet evenings, relaxing on the patio, watching the birds fly home, looking for the bats that live in the woods and planning the day ahead, then contented sleeping children.

 

Photos from my own collection.

 

I love the humour in Under Milk Wood.

 

Rev. Eli Jenkins  -  Sun-down

 

Every morning when I wake,

Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,

O please to keep Thy lovely eye

On all poor creatures born to die.

 

And every evening at sun-down

I ask a blessing on the town,

For whether we last the night or no

I’m sure is always touch and go.

 

We are not wholly bad or good

Who live our lives under Milk Wood,

And Thou, I know, wilt be the first

To see our best side, not our worst.

 

O let us see another day!

Bless us this holy night, I pray,

And to the sun we all will bow

And say goodbye – but just for now!

 

Dylan Thomas, from Under Milk Wood

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Trees - Bats and a Red Dragon

When the children were young we spent summer holidays in Pembrokeshire. We were fortunate to have the use of a static caravan owned by family. It was situated on a spacious site by the coast, surrounded by woodland. My husband warned our children to keep away from ‘the forest’ because a bright red dragon lived there. It was very fierce and snorted flames through huge nostrils. It was also very good at sniffing out children who were still awake after a certain time, apparently. The children weren’t quite sure about a dragon hiding in our trees, though they had seen plenty of Red Dragon themed items in the shops and didn’t doubt their existence. One day we were driving through the woods along the winding lane that took us to the main road when we saw a goat tethered to a tree.

“Oh look, there’s the dragon’s dinner!”  Said Dad to two horrified children.

Well, that was a step too far, especially when we returned later to find the goat no longer there.

When our children were a little older, they liked to be ‘scared’ by my husband stopping the car at night on the darkest stretch of the lane and turning the headlights off. No one wanted to be first to say ‘let’s go’ and get ridiculed by the others. It was usually me suggesting an end to silly games as it was nearly bed time. Nothing to do with fear, certainly not.

We never saw a real dragon but we did see the bats that lived in the trees. They flew around at dusk and we would watch them from the caravan veranda as we relaxed when the children were asleep after a fun-filled day.

Our children are now parents themselves. They still refer to the woodland near the caravan as the forest. If they ever visit with their little ones, I’m sure our legend of the Red Dragon will live on.
 

I was searching for a suitable poem about trees to add to my blog when vanity got the better of me and I looked no further than ‘The Tree in Pamela’s Garden’. Well, it had to be, didn’t it?

What I wasn’t expecting was eight pages of ‘A Literary Analysis’ about the fairly short poem.  The scrutiny kept me engrossed for a while, fascinated and amused with a bit of disbelief and lots of ‘What are they on about?’ or ‘What are they on?’ Either I’ve been away from education for too long, or I haven’t studied American poetry and poets enough.

 

 

The Tree in Pamela’s Garden

Pamela was too gentle to deceive
Her roses. “Let the men stay where they are,”
She said, “and if Apollo’s avatar
Be one of them, I shall not have to grieve.”
And so she made all Tilbury Town believe
She sighed a little more for the North Star
Than over men, and only in so far
As she was in a garden was like Eve.

Her neighbors—doing all that neighbors can
To make romance of reticence meanwhile—
Seeing that she had never loved a man,
Wished Pamela had a cat, or a small bird,
And only would have wondered at her smile
Could they have seen that she had overheard.

 

Edwin Arlington Robinson    1869 – 1935 Maine USA

If I had a proper tree in my garden, there would be also be a bench, like the picture. Not my photo, just looks appealing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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