Well once again it has gotten very late so once again it will be a short one tonight. I do promise to give you something meaty to get your teeth into at some point. As you have seen though, it’s been a very busy few days for us here at Bunbury. It didn’t stop tonight as we had our weekly Do The Write Thing meeting. As always, the writing was phenomenal. My mother’s in particular was a tour de brilliance. One of the prompts from last week was to rewrite a nursery rhyme. My mother picked ‘Who Killed Cock Robin’ rewritten about John Lennon. I may have mentioned this on a previous post but honestly, my praise for this piece cannot be overstated. It is sublime. She is a very talented woman.

Though she still can’t work a f**king mop.

Tomorrow starts a little time off from events for a few days. Time to catch up on uni work as I strive towards not almost-failing another philosophy assignment. The one thing that gives me a little positivity is it seems, from the forum chatter, that I am not the only one struggling. That makes me feel better.

While I am here as well, I should give a long over-due plug to the beautiful Keri’s blog. You can read her here: Writings of Keri

Anyway, with all that, or lack of, I must adieu to bed. Before I do, a poem.

Here is a poem.

I planted them in September, outside.

Perennials. They should live outside

but I felt like I was evicting them.

As part of their very nature

they are a part of nature

though nature was taking a

turn for the bitter. They were dying

inside though so I decided it was better to take the chance,

to give them a chance. I planted them in the little patch

right next to the front door. I spent a full day digging and

weeding on my knees, getting every last tiny root

so nothing could choke them. I put them in,

tucked them into the bed tight and wishes them good luck.

Late summer turned to autumn and winter.

I don’t know why but our front garden is

a magnet for leaves.

When we first moved in, we awoke one morning to find

an entire forest-full in front of the door.

This autumn has sent a fresh avalanche,

now the bed is blanketed in decay,

my plants tucked in too tight,

nature’s death cycle robbing

life from its children.

I walk past them every day,

thinking I should free them

but afraid of what I may find

and sometimes I

get the beginnings of a tear in my eye.