Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue...
It's my birthday today, I am sixty-nine, and I've just learnt a new way to fit cufflinks. I was driven this way, to try and keep the neatness and the shape of my Sheep inc pullover. We are allowed one luxury aren't we, and mine came with a sheep in New Zealand now named Coastmoor.
My younger brother posted me an email birthday message, I don't know that he has done that before, but it is good isn't it, that in these odd times, how everyone is learning something new; though where I would be without the Grammarly spell-checker I dread to think.
The Idle Rocks hotel in St. Mawes sent me an email too, along with a voucher for a 3-night stay, for just shy of five hundred pounds. Don't they know that I'm a pensioner by now, and having to watch the pennies; but maybe in September, yes.
Yesterday's visit to Marks and Spencer's food-hall, for birthday food, was a success, also the sushi for lunch was neat, especially as we watched the bright yellow fishing boat, being towed into the compound as we dined.
Tomorrow will be different; we have our poetry review zoom meeting to look forwards to. I got caught out last week, not only did I wear the same jumper as on a previous occasion, but the poem which I offered for review was one from this journal, and it was spotted as such.
Here then is a poem that won't be used tomorrow, it is from 2016:
Summer Shade, Summer Sun
The sun is up, the breeze breathlessly calm
The sky is blue, the birdsong does no harm
Where the trees will grow are single sticks
Pegs in the ground to line up the view of 2026
Next doors wisteria is hanging rather grand
Half in shade, and half, well I'll be damned
It looks just like the one we planted back-along
Crawling through the bower we threaded it on
The pampas grass suffered, in a winter so rough
Yet fresh shoots are showing, showing it's tough
You said to thin out, or cut back, the apple tree
I said only with you there, it's dangerous you see
The roses, and the peonies, they're both in bloom
That one from the garden centre, by my student's room
The washing line contraption, bought after seeing your friends
So bloody difficult to open, how on earth might I make amends
There's fences, there's hedges, and there's a clay tiled roof
There's a poet in the garden, he sits somewhat aloof
He watches the butterflies, and the moving shadows of truth
A northern boy, happy to rhyme shadder with gladder
