Category: #trees
-
Coping with Severe Weather: A Personal Account
Image by Lee Murry from Pixabay Hanging on! It’s not fit for man or beast today, and the streets are deserted. Keeping warm is also a major concern. The wind is finding its way through all the gaps in this ancient building, howling around like an angry animal. This awful sound causes backbones to shrivel and shrink, and…
-
Autumn Leaves…
—
by
This phrase has been going round and round in my mind for the last few days. Probably triggered by seeing all my bonsai getting ready for their winter sleep. Their leaves are changing colour and will soon fall. I must force myself not to feel sad at this time of year, but it is getting…
-
Summer Passing…
—
by
I can feel autumn out there, she is waiting, holding her breath. I love autumn—that crispness in the air, the pungent smell of leaves as they wait for the signal to start falling. Some people don’t care for the reminder that another year is nearly over, but to me, Autumn is a precious reminder that…
-
Grey Skies and Bonsai… #Poetry #Bonsai
Morning everyone, it’s not so good this morning. The sunshine has gone, and grey is the colour of the morning here. Those character bio’s for the book launch are not quite finished, so hoping for tomorrow. It must be the grey skies, but I feel a little doom and gloom hovering just out of sight,…
-
#Bonsai… My Other Love…
—
by
A little while ago, I wrote about the plight of one of my bonsai. In many ways, this one is my favourite, due to the intense colour of its foliage. Most of my acers tend to change their colour, either in the Spring or the autumn. This one never changes, and I love the constancy……
-
The Best Walk…
—
by
Whenever life gets too hard of complicated, I have to get out of the house and go for a walk. My garden is great for those sticky moments, the ones that will make you scream if you don’t get out of the house and take five. I have had several of those moments this week,…
-
Downtrodden… #Poetry #TheSundayWhirl #Wordle 650
—
by
Downtrodden My memory is hit-and-miss It flies in and out like many broken twigs on the forest floor As I sit beneath a willow tree I wonder where the divine is, in the pattern of my life I think He gave me the leftovers and then washed His hands I feel the blood of my…