Pea Blossoms
Tractors rumble, back and forth to the field where a wind turbine will be installed. The dirt they carry has an orange cast, looks iron rich, but today they dig the earth to harvest the weather.
Some loathe the turbine blades whirring in the landscape: not me. A blend of sleek futuristic styling and eco friendliness, to a girl who would live in a cave but keep the wifi?
A cool wind swoops, the sun plays blaze and hide, clouds take interplanetary sizes. Our seedlings cling in the ground, dazzled. The taller plants only know that they have made it this far, no one is an expert. The peas have an exuberant way of growing: throw as they grow and curl and climb, experimental, without regrets.
Like a tumble of pea blossoms, our grandchildren at play; Grandchild 3 has her second birthday: the diary is checked because it seems she has been here longer: but do we remember not having any of them? How the present can alter one’s perception of the past!
Grandchild 3 has a fine sense of purpose. She runs through the trees, away from the picnic.
‘Come back,’ call her parents, her aunts, her uncles, her grandparents, her cousins.
‘No.’ Are we idiots, not to see that she is busy?
She laughs and laughs when her mother runs to fetch her.
Some loathe the turbine blades whirring in the landscape: not me. A blend of sleek futuristic styling and eco friendliness, to a girl who would live in a cave but keep the wifi?
A cool wind swoops, the sun plays blaze and hide, clouds take interplanetary sizes. Our seedlings cling in the ground, dazzled. The taller plants only know that they have made it this far, no one is an expert. The peas have an exuberant way of growing: throw as they grow and curl and climb, experimental, without regrets.
Like a tumble of pea blossoms, our grandchildren at play; Grandchild 3 has her second birthday: the diary is checked because it seems she has been here longer: but do we remember not having any of them? How the present can alter one’s perception of the past!
Grandchild 3 has a fine sense of purpose. She runs through the trees, away from the picnic.
‘Come back,’ call her parents, her aunts, her uncles, her grandparents, her cousins.
‘No.’ Are we idiots, not to see that she is busy?
She laughs and laughs when her mother runs to fetch her.
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