Not writing but breathing…

I had intended to read and write about Paradise Lost this morning but instead have spent the first lovely hours in my own garden, enjoying the dew and the fleeting apple blossom, the blackbirds, robins and blue tits, a grey squirrel, a great predatory-looking seagull with a clump of something in his razor beak, and this lovely tiny thing (that’s a forget-me-not she’s sitting on), a mint moth. And the apple blossom has made me think of Herrick’s poem, Gather Ye Rosebuds, which I have in mind, by heart.

It’s a morning for gardening and so after reading this joyful creation, I will set to, digging out another huge, well-set shrubby root, this time an ancient Forsythia. I have learned in the past couple of weeks, in my back, shoulders, arms and legs, what ‘well-rooted’ really means. Much more than I would have thought. To be well-rooted is to be very secure indeed.

2 thoughts on “Not writing but breathing…

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