I am so sad that i will have to sell this house. my roses at the front are...well they are just right now.
aaaand now my music player played mr brightside. Now i feel just lovely, given mrsinky is out.
on back wall l to r, climbing alecs red, etoile d'hollande, Albertine (round window)
In bed l to r ruby wedding annivrsary, fastaff, ice cream
Lavender munstead hedge
That would make me very sad indeed, to leave my roses behind. I do love the poem btw Tennyson: this being the opening verse.
ReplyDeleteCOME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
It has such 'brio', I think the term is - bounce and rhythm - is it the polka? At any rate the full verse seems to suit your post very well.
Love, Cathy xxx
Lovely.
ReplyDeleteAnd I know what you mean about leaving a loved garden for sad reasons. In rather similar circumstances I took comfort that I had made something nice for others to enjoy.
Even though in my case my partner got to stay so I guess it was the Other Woman enjoying it....I look on it (now) as a local decrease in entropy which is an objectively good thing :)
They are so beautiful. I must say though, I expected more earthly delights.
ReplyDeleteBosh.
Bosh????
ReplyDeleteOn one hand, I was ejaculating 'Bosh!' as a simple way of punctuating the end of my point. On the other, I was referring to the Dutch Master's painting containing much ruderery as one might associate with Inky. On my final hand, there was a fleeting reference to the hell of leaving the real garden behind. (Hieronymus Bosch-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Garden_of_Earthly_Delights)
ReplyDeleteYour cultural sophistication surprises yet strangely entrances me.
ReplyDelete*Wraps mysterious cloak over riddle-vest and stare enigmatically into middle distance*
ReplyDeleteY'alright Inky?
Inky?
ReplyDeleteYeah, horsey bloke, drives a vauxhall senator or summat. We need more recipes round here.
ReplyDelete