September 9, 2009 § 9 Comments
A basket of “rescued” flowers from the back garden. They are now indoors and away from the huge slapping raindrops. that had hammered them into the garden bed.
Now they aren’t gritty ditty dirt blooms. They’re all cleaned up and scattered around the house in squat square vases which handily showcase the big-headed chunka munkas.
OK, every book I CAN think of with flowers in the title is kinda sad, disturbing, albeit poignant. Like, I Never Pomised You a Rose Garden or Flowers for Algernon or The Orchid Thief.
And then there are all the ones I haven’t read yet, like Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews, or, The Flame and the Flower by Katherine Woodiwiss, or, The Complete Book of Flower Fairies by Cicely Mary Barker (which looks darling).
Wait, by jove, I’ve got one:
A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robt Louis Stevenson. It’s ageless in its way.
The rain is raining all around
It falls on field and tree
It rains on the umbrellas here
And on the ships at sea.
(by RL Stevenson)
(and it falls on the marigolds who are bright against the storm’s gray.)