Sunday, 17 June 2012

Best of Days

I have just been gardening in the sunshine, cutting back the over-exuberant but lovely purple geranium phaeum which is now at its last prayers. In a week or two the massive gaps will be filled with fresh new leaf, but for the time being the bed looks as if it has been savaged by giant moths. Fortunately Sarah Bernhardt is there to distract my eye from the ravaged sections.

My Sarah Bernhardt paeony is determined to win 'The Most Beautiful Plant in the Garden' Award. She might well do it.

Model Dog helped.
She is a very patient gardener.
Top Dog only helped because there was nothing else to do, and the In-Charge had been thoughtless enough to go out without him. Under Dog snoozed in his bed in the kitchen.He doesn't really like gardening anymore.

Sunday is quite my favourite day.
It stems from when the boys were young, I think, and we would have them home from school and the day started with a long lazy brunch.

The best moment of the week..
I wrote a poem about it long ago

Morning Prayer

Later I will remember breakfast on winter Sundays:
the taste of the day, the way the low sun splashes
diamonds around the blue kitchen. Fire deep-rooted
in the belly of the stove, contentment creaking the
dog’s baskets, cats heaped in the chair like cushions,
and - best of days - my three most well-loved faces.
Softly the radio bares its soul, spills out the Omnibus,
someone’s choice of tunes and favourite book, word
games and goons… Warm as winter sunshine, they hook
the small spaces we leave, but we do not care. Too many
smells weave through the air: bacon frying, thick scarlet
moons of tomatoes and fat gold eggs lying spluttering
beside; the scent of coffee vying for place.  We are
greedy and satisfied.  And passing to and fro, filling
as slabs of hot toast buttery with marmalade, tingling
on tongues dark with oranges, are the exchanges of
the week, the hide and seek of words, the small
inconsequential chatter bright as the litter of stars on
the table top. Blissful to be unaware, drifting amidst the
clutter of blue glass and snowdrops, plates and paintings
and paperwork piled in corners, that little will ever
compare with these blessed ways, these best of days.

Dear boys. I suppose Sunday is the day of the week I miss them most, but today started, as all the best Sundays do, with a long chat with No 2 son in New Zealand, and hopefully it will end, as all the best Sundays do, with a chat with No 1 son in England.
Today there will also be a call to wish my Papa a Happy Father's Day.

I wish I could send him a bunch of roses from my garden.
They fill me with delight.

The Pink Jug

Even though the recent rain has tried to batter them into submission, they are undefeated.
Some of them are resting between outbursts, and some haven't even started to flower yet.
But I picked two lovely bunches today. The Pink Jug and the Purple Posy.

The Purple Posy

I can see why little posies of flowers were called nosegays.
When I bury my face in these roses, I almost pass out.with the scent.

Which bunch would you prefer?
Let me know so that I can rush it to you, the tooter-the-sweeter, as the In-Charge always says.

If the Jug or the Posy seem a little too much, you can always opt for the heart-breaker.

The Heartbreaker

Unless Sarah Bernhardt has already captured your heart?


  1. I shall forgive you the opening line as it has been dry and sunntish here too.
    Your last questions are too much. This post is too much. You have garrlanded us with words and memory. I loved the poem. I loved the roses. I love peonies. I no longer have a father. And I want to wath Model Dog race I the sunlight; see Top Dog supervising, smile at Under Dog sleeping. And where we're the cats? You have not told us about he cats!

  2. Oh no the perils of predictive text. Can you make me make sense please?

  3. Dear Isobel - what a lovely comment! Thank you. The cats were all elsewhere. They are very busy on days like today - generally sleeping in some sun-drenched part of the garden. Hobbes made a brief appearance, but drifted away quite quickly on more important business.

    Alas, I can't make you make sense as you can't edit comments on Blogger, just remove them! However, it is easy to see what you are saying!

  4. homely and beautyful again ... I love your poem ... it gives the assurence, that every second spend with your kids is treasured and captured ... but also leaving me with a bit of sadness, as my son no 1 soon leaving home ...
    Your flowers are mind blowing and I cant wait to see them soon in real :)

    1. Ah, thanks Tina! So glad you liked it. Looking forward to seeing you.

  5. Tender words and so deeply understood by any parent missing their children. The peonies so blousy and beautiful are the epitome of early summer.

    1. Aren't they just! I love them, whatever colour they are. Yes, it is the lot of parents to miss their children, isn't it?

  6. Sharing your thoughts and your visions has warmed my heart. I loved your poem and I must confess that most often I just don't get poetry, but yours moved me. Thank you.

    1. Thank you, Carol. That is a lovely comment and much appreciated.

  7. Good morning Ms Gardener and Poet! I was over on Isobel and Cat's blog and saw a reference to your blog. Had to click! Read the post about your dear dog and her last day; 'bout killed me....

    Your garden is stunning! I bet you have sitting places here and there.... ?? That cat statue--everyone should have one!

    Thank you for sharing the bits and pieces that add up to a life well-lived.



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