Roses in November

Here is a November rose. The roses have been so good this year.

Town Trees

I feel the Lawson's pines should be growing on a wild mountain side.

My Love Of Woodland

This is where my conscious memories of woodland begin.
I was taken to Epping Forest on a Sunday School treat when I was around five or six years old. Unfortunately my main memory is falling off a donkey. My foot being caught in a stirrup I was dragged along the ground, finishing up with a nasty graze on one of my arms. The trees took a second place that day!
As a young child Hockley woods played a great part in pleasurable outings of exploration. With young friends I wandered through the woods delighting in the great oak trees and the thickly growing remains of past coppicing. My Dad took me for walks and explained about the coppice cutting that had taken place in the past, talks which stayed in my mind and was the beginning of my love of trees. Windflowers starred the ground early in the Spring, delicately stirring to the slightest breeze.
There were also huge ants, not so lovable. Their nests were mountains of tiny twigs and whatever else was suitable for them. They got in the way of picnics. I have an idea they were originally put there as food for pheasants. The pheasants were gone and so were the humans who preyed on them, but the ants were flourishing.
While going to Hockley Council School my friend, Jean, and I were allowed to have a picnic meal in the woods once a week, in the summer of course. We sat in what I think were old sand pits surrounded by trees, not far from the school. On other days we went home for our dinner.
There was also the pleasure of eating the sweetest of chestnuts from the massive trees that grew near to the school playground. There was holly to collect at Christmas time, holly that seemed all the more festive due the search in the depths of the woods for bushes with berries.

My second name is Sylvia which seems to have been prophetic on the part of my parents.

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?