All posts tagged: garden

the pleasure of simple things

  Encircled with shading net, it is cooler on the patio than on the outside-outside, the rest of the garden. Through its dark green weave, I can still see the glare of the summery heat, blazing white, overwhelming. Outside the netting, it is almost too hot to breathe, almost too hot to live. Inside the netting, life still seems possible. It is only April; it should not be this hot, not yet. I wonder what the real summer will be like, come July and August. I went to the fishmongers this morning. So much fish. So much variety. While here, I always try to eat what I can’t get hold of in England: ‘carapau’, my firm favourite; how I’ve missed it all these years. And then the ‘fanecas’, so delicately flavoured; I could never understand why the Brits, as proud as they are of their ‘fish and chips”, can disdain such lovely fish as pout and horse mackerel. Silly, silly, silly people; they don’t know what they’re missing out on! And then… And then there is …

this moment in time

    The lilac tree is late, in a negation of what lateness is to fecundity – she stands there, punily bare and of a lesser green, almost lost and unseen against the crab apple and her bright and riotous loudly glorious dress of almost, almost almost but not quite pristine whiteness: there are still buds as pink as berries and this morning’s blossom still carries a ghost of pink nacre on their interrupted velvet. The lilac’s is grey silk, old and worn and pale and stale and still bare and barren and late. In my contemplation, I reflect that in the collective soul of my primordial fold, trees are female as is the grass – givers of the life they alone can bless, they can but be called by the lasting caress of a woman word: and thus lateness, blame it on the stalled Spring or some other fate or indifferent word, or on the tree’s lost strife against changeability, becomes fall – and thus Nature without redress will die by man’s sword.   …

life, unbound

    “I don´t know what beauty you can possibly find in any of that!” She throws at me in passing, her head slowly shaking from one side to the other. I suppose it is yet something else in which I am a disappointment to her. Heart on the sleeve. Head in the clouds. Always in dreamland. Always living a fantasy. “Life is not what you think it is, little missy!”, she used to scold me many, many years ago. “You imagine it´s all sweet words and poetry and everything like in the movies and all la-di-da, and it ain´t, it just ain´t!” I smile to myself and carry on shooting. I almost tell her that life turns out to be exactly as I imagined it. Every single blessed day. But I don´t. I just smile to Man, who´s crept up silently behind me, he too smiling. His hand is on my shoulder. In my hand, the camera whirrs and purrs. The macro is but the faintest whisper as it slides and locks. I don´t …