I love the little pink bits in our white Hebe.
I have planted up prepared Hyacinths in my Mum’s lovely glass jars, three white and three blue. Something went wrong last year so I am hoping all will be well this year. They are in a dark cupboard now for about six weeks until there is good root growth and then I will bring them out in the hope that they will be in flower between Christmas and New Year.
I am spending many hours researching some of the ‘residents’ buried in our local churchyard, St Uny. We are working towards a production in May next year and I am finding myself consumed by the story of one young man and his mother. His is a War Grave – born in Colorado, he died in 1916 at the tender age of 19 and his mother died just six months later. There is such a story to tell. I went back to my collections of poetry from the First World War this afternoon and came across this and leave it with you here…….
The End of a War
In former days we used to look at life, and sometimes from a distance, at death, and still further removed from us, at eternity. Today it is from afar that we look at life, death is near us, and perhaps nearer still is eternity.
written by Jean Bouvier, a French Subaltern, February 1916
