A sunny walk near my place.

Gallery

(Above) Some of the boats we use to take out our “special sailors”

(Two below) We call it the nursery due to the number of swan, geese and duck families in residence – looking for a free breakfast.

IMG_0059IMG_0056

(Next 3 views of one of the locks on the Grand Union Canal)

IMG_0075

 

IMG_0072

 

IMG_0071

Gate to the bird sanctuary ( a much wilder area!)

IMG_0090

 

Two smaller beauties I noticed. (The thistles in the bird sanctuary were like a forest higher than my head!)

IMG_0087

 

 

IMG_0083

Hidden sunshine.

Standard

The day is dull and cloudy, and yet there trails a song,

The water still and placid as the wind pulls us along.

The birds that circle over, tern, swallow and a goose,

The flapping of the sail above, the line that is too loose.

The laughter of my sailor as she spots one of her own,

His craft he’s proudly steering (though he’s also from the home).

Their lives are seldom sunny, each body has a flaw,

Yet the heart that dwells within them still causes them to soar.

The calmness of the water that stretches all about,

Must open up the spirit and let the joy come out.

 

(Thoughts on taking disabled folks sailing).

Pleasure’s Vigil

Standard

after ban(from June 22nd. 2014)

Song Bird Songs

(Flash fiction on the theme of pleasure)

The ball is over. Chairs stand like silent sentinels, their tumbled silhouettes baring record of revels, each telling its story. The table’s rows, once neat and occupied, are now abandoned, askew, their late owners having vacated to other pleasures.

The ballroom chairs tell of wallflowers, sitting primly, fans aflutter. Masculine chairs turn in clusters where rowdy conversation once reigned. Drunken chairs, like their owners, lay in sprawled stupor.

But what is this? A peal of childish laughter breaks the silence, as a dog, bright eyed, ears flapping bounds across the room pursued by running feet, soft and fresh from sleep. As one day ends another begins. A white cloth, formerly adorning the counter becomes a tug of war, – sharp teeth versus chubby hands. A pitcher of wine that managed to survive the night’s foray falls victim, and, seized upon by eager fingers…

View original post 50 more words

Summer snow on a Sunday afternoon

Standard

IMG_0086

The fuzzy blossom that I cycled through like fluttering rains a few days back now carpets the floor.

IMG_0128

The geese are still out foraging among the picnickers. Looking for a hand out they mistake my camera for bread.

IMG_0131

IMG_0094

A yacht overturns and there’s a momentary scurry as other boats come to the rescue sails snapping in the stiff breeze of the lake.

IMG_0115

Meanwhile families, lovers, crazy teenagers and grinning boys take to the water.

IMG_0123

I amble down the inviting paths and enjoy a secret, dappled enclave with the swans.

IMG_0089

Pleasure’s Vigil

Standard

(Flash fiction on the theme of pleasure)

The ball is over. Chairs stand like silent sentinels, their tumbled silhouettes baring record of revels, each telling its story. The table’s rows, once neat and occupied, are now abandoned, askew, their late owners having vacated to other pleasures.

The ballroom chairs tell of wallflowers, sitting primly, fans aflutter. Masculine chairs turn in clusters where rowdy conversation once reigned. Drunken chairs, like their owners, lay in sprawled stupor.

But what is this? A peal of childish laughter breaks the silence, as a dog, bright eyed, ears flapping bounds across the room pursued by running feet, soft and fresh from sleep. As one day ends another begins. A white cloth, formerly adorning the counter becomes a tug of war, – sharp teeth versus chubby hands. A pitcher of wine that managed to survive the night’s foray falls victim, and, seized upon by eager fingers, gives forth its last drop to a reckless little mouth. Boy and dog scamper off leaving behind their own trail of muddy debris.

Then, with a yawn, the parlor maid arrives, broom and bucket in hand. No pleasure for her lies ahead, just dusting and cleaning from now unto bed.