Wet leaves in my garden

The Falling Of The Leaves by William Butler Yeats

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us patt, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

Pebbles (without Bam Bam)

Lucky enough to get a few rays of sunshine. Whizzed down to beach with Treacle.

Begging for Pebbles on the Sand

by Les Gardonyi

Little rocks come rolling in
From the cold sea's treasure bin
Longing for hot summer's choice
I pass them by without remorse
Sunken footprints following me
I turn, they stop -there's only the sea
Some clouds above with streaks of white
Match the beach's snowy blight
Winter's frost has brought it's poverty
Coating rich rocks with a frozen canopy
Even the shells that roll up like dice
Now linger on shore contained in ice
Reflecting at my own condition
Sadness strips me of contrition
I hold a shell in my gloved up hand
And go begging for pebbles on the sand

Rain

Little sparrow just outside my window
Rain patterns on windows
Hope that sun is coming

Horses and Men in Rain by Carl Sandburg

LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.

Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.

A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.

All quiet on the eastern front

Yesterday in Cley writing CVs and letters and fending off Crazy Graeme. Stirred my coffee with cat food spoon - whatever. Rosa made lumpy custard. Today: SuperCuts, Starbucks, Jarrolds and Bella Pasta. Hair, coffee, stationery and food - what better way to spend Sunday!
Sheringham sucks. It's about time they started spending money on the present and the future rather than nostalgia.

Friends glorious friends

Mike, Grania and Moira.
Magical, gracious and mesmerising
Mike and I went to Cley to collect frames - 15 we thought and ended up with 50!
Moira going back to Ireland today - I will miss her
Grania is staying here
Mike is staying here until he wanders off on another adventure

Teatime in Cley

Hot Cross Buns, coconut biscuits, chocolate biscuits, tea. I was asked why they are called Hot Cross Buns - my reply 'you'd be bloody cross if you were crucified'. Mike and Hubbie are going to Las Vegas and I'm going on round the world cruise with Mike next year: Yippee. I may be dead in 10 years so gonna enjoy mah time now. I learned that in Ireland a raconteur is called a shannockeer. Rosetta is also a Bowen Therapist in the wild hills of Ireland. And that is Mr Moss the three-legged cat.

Sunday, Sunday....I just love that day

Lunch at The Dales with Mike and Maxine followed by Afternoon Tea with Grania, Rosetta, Moira, John, Jim, Cockney Charlie, Cozy the Cat and Charlie the Cat - what could have been better.
The only sad part was fatal accident on the way back - motorbike just outside Fisherman Jim's house - someone's brother, father, uncle, son, nephew, friend. Will be in papers tomorrow.

The Blingods

Mike: artist, raptor, author, traveller, raconteur, humanitarian
Ann: gardener, baker of cakes, bird watcher
Mike has just returned from a short jaunt to Australia, Mexico, California and New England. He is my mentor with regard to falconry. The two large feathers are left and right primary feathers from a condor's wings.

More strange land

My five fav photos of Mijas (taken by Hubbie)

A strange and enchanting place - one vista lush green valleys, another craggy rocks and another desert-like. Village clinging to rocks, cacti, vultures, beautiful clean promenades, dried up river beds, chasms, gushing water, colourful clothing, dark curly haired people with the darkest of eyes, winding roads with 1000m drops to one side, smooth highway, bright white buildings, strange cloud formations, earthy, solid, fierce land.

Mijas Costa, Mijas, Rhonda, Marbella

Average temp of 18C which the Spanish thought was cold! Lunch 4 Euros, supper 10 Euros. Locals incredibly friendly and generous.
Bit hilly! Lots of Danes and Finnish. Petrol 1 euro a litre. Local produce really cheap. Adoro Mijas mucho. Mejor que Francia.

It all addz up!

This is Jo - I met her on Facebook as she also has Hypermobility Syndrome and then we met for real in Norwich at our first ever Bendie Club. The bloke is Addz, her boyfriend, who is a completely bonkers and totally fit free runner and tricker. Love it, love it, live it.