A Meeting Of Poets

 I dreamed we were meeting up with the family of a high-flying lawyer. He was completely bald with freckles and when my mother approached him he acted like he didn't know her. I was about 20 so I was hanging out with his kids.  The daughter was called Rosamund and she wrote poems. She read me one about 911. I wasn't impressed but pretended I was because she was very beautiful. "Ah, Rosamund" I thought, "Rosa Mundi, Rose of the world, the most beautiful name in existence," but didn't say it because her younger brother had already told me "Our Rosamund doesn't flirt." She was a very serious young lady. We were walking down a muddy lane and came to a wall we had to climb. "I write poems too" I said. "I'm not a poetical person," she replied, "The poems just come." "I write poems because I'm a poet," I said, as I hauled myself up to the top of the wall....

Planting Bulbs

 My sister says our mother's idea for planting bulbs was to take a handful, throw them underarm and then plant them where they fell. That way you get a natural looking drift.

I'm being more systematic because I want a mass of flowers not a scatter, but I like her method- and if I had a larger garden to play with I might have adopted it.

I forget how many bulbs we ordered this last time but I think it was around 150. I'm getting through them gradually.

When I get to the depth I want them buried at I hit a layer of rubble. There's bits of brick and tile and glass as well of the pebbles that were probably once the topping for a rough roadway. This was a brown field site and I'm uncovering its 19th and early 20th century past. Nothing particularly interesting has come up yet, but you never know....