Roasts on trays sunning to dry* gain protein from the odd greenfly.
This veiled threat leaks such vibes from me to cause that timid beast to flee the garish sweet-potato scene, deserting the orange for the green,
desiring a more catholic place, past parsnip, spud, celeriac, right by my ears, sweet-breeze at back, in shades of leaves to say her grace.
Blackbird carols all the while and Joseph sits by with a smile.
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*After the boil/parboil stage
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Dandelion Clocks*
The dandelions, so venerable wise, readying heads to be emptied, yield to the mischief of a gust comes from nowhere, under calm blue skies, streams them, whirling, vortexes* up and flings them from high carousel, time told. The right time, yes indeed to set sail over world's wide edge, to seed.
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*Dandelion clocks are a fancy and a tradition, in the UK at least. It's a kind of nursery level game. We blow the dandelion ready to seed. The seeds left on count as hours and that tells the time - if you are lucky it's somewhat near. Ha-ha. I feel this game says plainly that people love dandelions and want them to seed, and love the drifting seed. We used to call seeds sugar-stealers - from the time people had sugar bowls and the seeds would blow in the open window. Other people called them fairies. I like the Disney Fantasia image of ballerinas, as well.
*The plural of 'vortex' is either 'vortexes' or 'vortices' ... but actually I am using the word in a verbal sense, as the wind putting the seeds through its vortex.
The Territories
A gibbous moon, a pastel dusk, the salmon afterglow, a few slate clouds floating over (the only ones in the whole wide sky), theatrically placed, half past nine, British Summertime, and all the blackbird territories singing on, blue Fantasia jewels dropping twinkling into night, from TV aerial or tip of tallest hawthorn, over the heady May blossom that giggles and lurches through inhalation - tipsy girls linked arm in arm.
