Family Trees

When we moved to the Potters House nearly 30 years ago, the back  field was a wild unkempt area, with a few mature trees around the edges. Nini was ten and Ben was nine and the field was all theirs as we had no time then to start sorting it out and tidying it up . What joy for two kids! Well, a Tarzan swing was set  up on the tallest of the sycamores. You know the type that I mean...a sturdy rope slung over a high branch, and then brought right down to the ground a distance away and pinned down with some sort of tent peg. A couple of handles on either side of the rope, climb the tree, hands firmly into the handles and with a forest yell slide down...very fast! It was inevitable that there would be little accidents, and as mum I just kept hoping that it wouldn't be too much. Well with Ben it was the little bones in his foot. Probably a hard landing.  And what can a doctor do about that I was informed, so he just hobbled and looked for sympathy. None from his sister, not much from mum and dad. Too much going on elsewhere. The next to go was Nini and hers was a bit like something out of the Keystone Cops. She climbed another thinner tree and showing off, swung out to be admired. Unfortunately the branch she was holding was dead and down she went. This time it was an elbow that was damaged, though it was quite a while before I was informed as she held the arm close to her side! A greenstick fracture, very painful, I had one myself as a child. The bone is cracked or chipped but there is no break.

So you might wonder, whether this week while all the family were together at the Potters House,  if the grand children would be allowed to climb, now that they are of "climbing age"? Well of course they are! There is a Stag's Horn tree that I have been cultivating for just such a time as this. It's branches start low to the ground and then spread out in a wonderful fashion ideal for climbing. I've even had a go myself and got to the second level!
A neighbour called this week asking if it would be possible to trim the eucalyptus tree on their boundary with  the back field. We had already planned to do it this year and of course this gave Alan the ideal excuse to go climb a tree. Tree duly trimmed and delighted  lovely neighbour ...and happy husband.
So you see it IS the family tree AND  family trees. Now I'm thinking of calling the five grand daughters, " The Fabulous Five", as opposed to " The Famous Five". Especially as I read this week that  many of the old fashioned words are to be removed from those books, and 21st century ones replace them. [ I went out especially to a second hand bookshop to snaffle up some of the original " Fives" ! ]

So far no broken bones and I'm thankful.

A poem for Thursday

We go to Spain every June and stay in the hills up above Marbella in a beautiful apartment belonging to family. We look out over the valley to the "Pueblo" Mijas. There is a bull ring there. I've  never been to a fight, but we once had a look around it and saw the bull-fighters' outfits hanging in the dressing room. They were amazingly created and embroidered with colour and beads and gold worked through it all. I thought I understood perhaps a little more about how the Spanish see this ancient sport. It's full of custom and tradition and theatre. But I could never bear to go to see an animal killed for sport. I'm not a vegetarian and never will be. Does that make me a hypocrite. That's not  a question as I don't need an answer.  But is the influence in Spain that of the outsiders who now flock to have a share in that stunning land of sun and mountain?  Or have the Spanish themselves thought ,"enough is enough"?

Anyway on a lighter note, is this haiku or not ? I need the poetry community to put me right!

bullfighting will go

underground the spanish know -

 how to dig big holes 

The Poetry Bus

I'm hoping to join The Poetry Bus...if they will let me on board. I've not been on it yet and have no idea where it will take me, but I've never been disappointed with any journeys that I've taken on other poetry transport, so I can't imagine that this will be any less exciting! Here goes...lets hope that it stops for me.

I believe that the subject this week is Confusion. So I'm already this year up to scratch!

Hilary

Hilary, Hilarious I think!
Three times
Ethics, morals, growing up
Passing it on.

Kites fly M40
You and me boy
You and me.

It's not definitive and I'm on line
Who's line?
Big sister, little sister, sister-in-the-middle
One brother, son and heir
                    Sun and air.

Counting up, counting down
County Down, Armagh, Tyrone and Belfast Town
Out of your safety zone.

Perhaps she's strong
Can cope with less comfort?
It's the locusts and little foxes to blame
They steal and destroy.
Watch out for the grapes of wrath.

I'm on line - the blood line
And I'm not alone.

Sing blackbird
        Sing No.1

Painted kites hover in the cold air with tails spread,
      Thinly spread, not enough to go round.
              Who knows where the end is?

Twenty five miles from Birmingham.

Crows wait to snatch up the carrion.
Think on.
Clean up your game Wiseman
Wise man?
All will be well, foolish heart.

Growing up in rarified air,
Growing old in terrified air.
                  [ Blackbird fly away].

" These are the tracks of our years"
Then I'll take the one less travelled.

"On the 13th level I can see everything".

Hemmed in, knitted together.
" My old man"..has no piece of City Hall paper,
Now he's gone
                     Put on the pan!

He was a singer in the bathroom
                     Sneak in and watch.

Never signed for little green
No flowers, no birthday clothes, much sorrow.
A mean old daddy all wind and snow
                                 snow and wind.

"Blue" [pale blue].
Lots of laughs
                    and lullabies

The news looks bad....
Ballyferris I'm coming home.
Just let me be a fantasist
And take me as I am.
Is faith enough for this crazy blackbird?
Does the evening star shine for everyone?

Keep to your line!
The blood line.
Babies cry and come up the Lagan in a bubble.
Jingle the money in your pocket.

You're in my blood like Holy Wine.
[She had a mouth like your's, blood red.]

Joni, you still sing my life.
Hiding today in that dark cafe
On a road less travelled - now unravelled.

James you still sing my life.
Travelling in the eye of the storm
With nowhere to go.

No more innocently walking in the sand, picking up shells
                                                     and   soft edged glass.

Time spent out of time.

     

Fishy tale

We had a very productive weekend up at the lovely Morecambe Bay. There has been a gathering of artisans and artists coming to live in the road where we stay, and that is quite a big change over the eight years that we have been blessed enough to go there. A young journalist and his wife who is an art photographer, a commercial photographer and now a fisherman. And I mean fisherman. We were asked would we like some sea bass, and nearly snapped the  hand off !  We sent some courgettes across the road, brought up from the "monsoon" garden at home!  [ at the moment it's just a Donegal mist, what we laughingly call a soft day, in Ireland.]  So when Alan went over for the fish he got more that he bargained for...in fact two seabass and a beautiful red mullet. Paid for the sea bass and the mullet came as a freebie. How good is that. On an aside, we do the same with a neighbour who comes to pottery classes and keeps hens. She gets her ceramics fired and we get the best fresh eggs.

Two sea bass

and a lovely red mullet.

We ate the mullet and the flesh was as fresh as the morning milk on the doorstep. We took the advice of the blessed Rick Stein, and did nothing fancy to it. Served it with roasted courgette and peas from Alan's garden.

I can't resist this little N.E. rhyme.

Dance to your daddy

My little laddie

Dance to you daddy 

My little son.

You shall have a fishy 

In a little dishy

You shall have a fishy 

When the boat comes home.

The sea bass are waiting in the freezer for a fabulous meal with family

Good life.