|the white tree peony now in full bloom|
|Pocket(quarter Bengal) watching the snake|
|Pixie wanting to check out the balloons|
Then when we got back there was a dead scarecrow lying in the road by our gate.
I'm going to sing the praises of Salix Britzensis now. It is the most fantastic tree if allowed to grow on a single stem and is pollarded in March to preserve the colour. In the winter the stems look as if they are on fire and when you cut them back they are really useful for weaving structures around plants to either hold them up or protect them from pecking, bothersome, naughty ducks. In the summer they grow mop heads like a child's drawing of a tree. I highly recommend them.
|Salix britzensis with its winter colour|
|Salix Britzensis in the summer|
|useful for making structures|
|the dead scarecrow|
And talking of those ducks I have left them be. They all seem happy in their own company.
|the naughty ducks in harmony|
With Pocket's antics in mind this poem by Pablo Neruda seemed most appropriate.
A great lion came from the distances,
it was huge as silence is,
it was thirsty, it was after blood,
and behind its posturing
it had fire, as a house has,
it burned like Osorno.
It found only solitude,
it roared, out of uncertainty and hunger -
the only thing to eat was air,
the wild foam of the coast,
frozen sea lettuces,
air the colour of birds,
Wistful lion from another planet,
cast up by the high tide
on the rocky coast of Isla Negra,
the salty archipelago,
with nothing more than an empty maw,
claws that were idle
and a tail like a feather duster.
It was well aware of the foolishness
of its aggressive appearance
and with the passing of years
it wrinkled up in shame.
Its timidity led it on
to worse displays of arrogance
and it went on ageing like one
of the lions in the Plaza,
it slowly turned into an ornament
for a portico or a garden,
to the point of hiding its sad forehead,
fixing its eyes on the rain
and keeping still to wait for
the grey juice of stone,
its geological hour.