Autumn

The leaves on the huge London plane tree opposite to our house are now golden. Soon they will fall and we shall really believe that winter is here. Today the sun is shining and there is still warmth in it. We sat in the conservatory and were comfortable. Before that we had a walk by the Welsh Harp and this was lovely. There were a few people walking their dogs. The water really looked blue. We could see the top of the new Wembley Stadium with its arch. I never understand why the arch has to be leaning. I think it would be better standing straight upwards.

From where I am sitting, looking between the houses opposite, I can see the top of Brockley Hill so we are really on the edge of London.

My Mum and her brother, my Uncle Dick

A Veteran Tree

This is such an ancient oak tree. I should like to see Mill Hill as it was when this tree was a sapling.If only these veteran trees could speak.

We had to have our very tall, ancient conifer felled yesterday. I was grieved to have to do but it became necessary as we were afraid it might come down in a gale and either damage our or a neighbours house. I planted the tree nearly fifty years ago when it was a tiny sapling. It poured with rain all the time the two young men were working on it. As it had a preservation order on it we had to get permission to cut it down. The man from the tree department of the council suggested we replace it with a fruit tree. We are now looking for a Victoria plum tree.

Autumn collage with late rose

Looking Back Through Memory’s Veil

I look back through memory’s veil
To that distant child living through historyand approaching chaos.
What in that early time led to the present being?
A variety of influences played their parts:
That fearsome headmaster , tall and ramrod straight,
Was countered by parents of tolerant authority.
There was a brother so small and so determined in his play,
So full of imagining,So much an individual.
Wide fields and tall trees were there
For love of the wilderness and joy of freedom.
Fetes and concerts divided the year, each to its own season.
A witch’s deserted hovel was a place of terror.Never to be entered.
Death was a part of it,
A well loved Grandad taken in old age.
Many of poverty’s children were a part of that time,
Poorly clad scraps of humanity with noses so runny, faces so dirty and plimsolled feet in pouring rain.
“Land of Hope and Glory?”
Later there was the convent ,
An austere place of black-robed gliding figures,
The smell of polish, lead pencils and yesterday’s dinner.
Crocodiles of schoolgirls demurely curtsy passing Reverend Mother
Hiding their frolicksome hearts beneath severely uniformed exteriors.
That French nun who taught us the Marseillaise,
Was she homesick?
Trees, river marshes, those fields so wide and free
Awaited the return from days at the desk and academic enforcement.
Was there ever such freedom again
As the holidays brought?
There was time to run, time to climb,
Woodland exploration and riverside adventures with laughing companions.
But there was also fear.
Fear of the rapidly approaching dread shadow of conflict
Sometimes entered the child’s mind,
Momentarily blotting out child hood.
The sharp axe of war crashed down,
Slicing through that far off world with terrible sureness.
Somewhere, beyond eternity, do those sun-lit children still play?

MSK.

Autumn

Autumn is approaching once more. How quickly the time passes.

Dappled Dad

We did have some lovely days this summer.

A corner of our garden.

As I grew up in a village not far from Southend I was, naturally enough, quite frequently beside the Thames Estuary. Because of that I have a soft spot for the area. The photo was taken earlier this year in Thorpe Bay. Rather impressive, I think.

Sun and Shadows

Sun and shadows make
Our garden lovely.
Shadows and bright sun
Across the lawn
Make beauty.

MSK

January Bird Table

Black shadows in surrounding trees
Wait for the provider on January mornings,
For one who holds a few of the keys
To avian winter survival.

Water, seeds, nuts and fat,
Bread if it’s brown and crumbs of cake,
Break the ice, shoo the cat,
First of jobs on a January morning.

A blackbird flies to the apple basket,
Pecks and pecks again and again,
The sweetness of summer it’s her task to eat,
To carry her on to vernal survival.

As dusk descends I hope they’re full,
Warm for the night, fluffed on their roosts.
Waiting for morning and the golden jewels
Flaming above the horizon, their signal for flight.

MSK

It's September tomorrow so winter is on its way.

Autumn

Crisp autumn mornings give me something of my childhood;
The chill in the air, the sun bright-shining,
Diamond strung cobwebs, touch some hidden cord
Which reaches back through time
To that distant happiness. They rouse the wish
To trample rustling leaves deeply lying in their
Red-gold masses under glorious trees,
Trees ripe for climbing in those far off days
Before the turmoil of newly attained adulthood
Swept away the child’s world
Into the fine-wrought halls of memory.

Before breakfast

A Welsh Harp Walk

I like to make collages but this is only a lazy picasa 2 made one.
At least it is from my own photos.

This is a sweet little Victorian House which belonged to my Grandmother Rosetta. When I was a little girl I

had 48 farthings saved in it. I felt rich. It was originally intended to be a money box. It is now about 120 years old.

Looking Back Through Memory’s Veil

I look back through memory’s veil
To that distant child living through history
And approaching chaos.
What in that early time led to the present being?
A variety of influences played their parts:
That fearsome headmaster , tall and ramrod straight,
Was countered by parents of tolerant authority.
There was a brother so small and so determined in his play,
So full of imagining ,
So much an individual.
Wide fields and tall trees were there
For love of the wilderness and joy of freedom.
Fetes and concerts divided the year, each to its own season.
A witch’s deserted hovel was a place of terror.
Never to be entered.
Death was a part of it,
A well loved Grandad taken in old age.
Many of poverty’s children were a part of that time,
Poorly clad scraps of humanity with
Noses so runny, faces so dirty and plimsolled feet in pouring rain.
“Land of Hope and Glory?”
Later there was the convent ,
An austere place of black-robed gliding figures,
The smell of polish, lead pencils and yesterday’s dinner.
Crocodiles of schoolgirls demurely curtsey passing Reverend Mother
Hiding their frolicksome hearts beneath severely uniformed exteriors.
That French nun who taught us the Marseillaise,
Was she homesick?
Trees, river marshes, those fields so wide and free
Awaited the return from days at the desk
And academic enforcement.
Was there ever such freedom again
As the holidays brought?
There was time to run, time to climb,
Woodland exploration and riverside adventures with laughing companions.
But there was also fear.
Fear of the rapidly approaching dread shadow of conflict
Sometimes entered the child’s mind,
Momentarily blotting out childhood.
The sharp axe of war crashed down,
Slicing through that far off world with terrible sureness.
Somewhere, beyond eternity, do those sun-lit children still play?

A Day Out in WW2

To go for a day out on my bike with a friend was one of my great pleasures when I was in my early teens. To set off early in the morning with a packet of sandwiches, a flask of tea in my saddlebag and the open road ahead was wonderful. It appealed to the gypsy in me.
We would set off early in the morning and cycle towards Battlesbridge where we would cross the bridge over the River Crouch. Once over we were in what was to us distant country, far from home. The roads were quiet and the miles sped by. On and on we would go. It was wonderful. We even got as far as the River Blackwater on one outing which was amazing. On that occasion we spotted a tank moving about near the river so we beat a hasty retreat! We did not want to get caught up in army manoeuvres of some sort. Remember, this was wartime.
Although I remember those days as being always sunny I know that there were occasions when the rain poured down. There was the time when there was pelting rain for the last fifteen miles or so of the journey home. This must have been after the war had ended as we were rowed across the river by Mr Swanborough who regularly ferried people, bikes and all, from Burnham to the opposite side of the Crouch and vice versa of course. I know I was a drowned rat by the time I arrived home. Even so, the memory is of a happy day.
The whole atmosphere of those days out was the feeling of freedom that we had. There was little traffic on the roads, and for a few hours we were away from any sort of worry. I don’t think it would be possible to find that feeling in many places these days. There is tension in the air.

An Edwardian Wedding

I think this is a beautiful old family wedding photograph. The young girl with the lovely white hat is my mother. In the back row standing up higher than the others is my Uncle Dick.

Then and Now

As it seems fashionable at present to consider whether one is a survivor or not here are some memories of my very distant child hood.



Here are some of the things I did as a child and as a young adult which would be considered highly dangerous these days.

I would ride my bicycle without a helmet,
Climb very high trees.
Ride on horse back without a helmet,
Roller skate through the village on the main road,
Explore woods and marshlands by a river,
Go out for a whole day with a friend and a packet of sandwiches, again exploring so that no one would know where we were,
Paddle in a river having no idea how deep it might be and of the danger of drowning,
I remember the great pleasure of hanging on the back of a horse drawn milk float on my roller skates. As the side roads were all unmade in those distant days anything to do with roller skates had to be on the Main Road

As a young adult during WW2 I walked home from dances and the cinema with friends while anti aircraft guns were firing and shrapnel was falling on the pavements along which we were walking.

I was in a First Aid group at the age of sixteen. The group was short of one steel helmet and as I was the youngest I did not have one. I borrowed my Dad’s. As things turned out I did not need it.

As I am a very ancient lady indeed I think I must be a survivor. It amuses me to compare “then and now”.