7 Words for Sunday – Little strawberry Picker


For my Mum –

Grandpy’s birthday.


Looking Back


Looking through old certificates, mixed feelings!

At Tinker’s Coppice

We walk up the old railway track until we get to Tinker’s Coppice Crossing. I lean on the gate my companion by my side, “Me and Dylan used to live here Scoobs!” I realise my mistake as soon as the words have left my mouth…Scooby is gone. Dylan is too. My two boys are boxes of dust on my bookshelf. Rosie is a lovely dog but she is just borrowed for the week.
We stand there buffeted by a chill autumnal wind. Even the ivy clings on to its support for dear life – like some multi-handed tree hugger. We start to amble back home and on the ancient trees the creepers have grown conker-casing armour to keep out unwanted attention.
Looking upwards I blink as the rain fills my eyes. I feel…

Father’s Day

I take my Dad to the garden centre – he wants some border plants and when I say that I will buy him some for Father’s Day he tells me that he is looking for a perennial. A riot of bright colours catch his eye and he goes pottering off around the spindly stalks and differently textured leaves. I get side-tracked by the bird-baths and plan where I could place one to benefit all occupants of my garden.
Joining my father, I am pleased to see that he is like a little boy in a sweet shop; rooting around with obvious delight and we start to gather some passable specimens. Then he spots a foxglove.
Digitalis” he says, “Reminds me of my Dad. When he was ill, before he died, he was taking digitalis tablets…”
I look at the vivacious pink, goblet-shaped flowers with their speckled animal-print throats and think they are rather attractive in a sort of juicy-red-apple-offered-to-Eve way. We leave with a boot full of plants and, in prize position, the towering foxglove for my Dad to remember his Dad on Father’s Day.

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