Indian summer, sun shines on rosehips.
Six Word Saturday
Beneath planks of layityourselfdecking.com
lies a foot of sticky stamped-on red clay
above a layer of rich fertile soil
where a keen first-time gardener
planted carrots for one season only
and a cat skeleton, with a slack flea collar
sleeps forever in wicker remains
a splintered rocking-chair with legs splayed
the oilcloth seat stuffed with horsehair
and pierced by crumbling coiled springs
deeper a wrought iron gate crushing a 70’s suitcase
with rust circles and lines and a concrete post
compacting it into the ground
a naked Barbie with painted lashes
blue eyes dimmed by the trash
no longer a little child’s treasure
a grandchild has i phone Barbie games
but that’s okay just throw it away
what’s this straight jaw full of teeth
the smoothness of piano keys
quick grab the ivory sell it to China
or send it to a Gaberone museum
for when there are no elephants left
majestically walking the savannah
and no savanna for an elephant to walk
A few weeks ago I was taking a photo of a street in Aix en Provence. I decided to set the camera to one of it’s creative modes, where you don’t need to have a drop of creativity yourself, it does it for you. I have no idea how it happened, but instead of one of the options of the view, it was changing on its own and I ended up with fifteen to choose from. Here are seven.
Perhaps I should read the camera manual, but I never do, I’m a kinesthetic learner and I don’t understand them!
For number two of my occasional street art post, I’m in Warsaw. With apologies to the artist, this work reminds me of those colouring books for adults, does it you?
And is it art or graffiti?
Graffiti writing and street art are often confused with one another. Both are subversive art movements where work is displayed in public rather than a gallery setting. While graffiti artists place their work in public, . . .
Maybe this work isn’t finished, perhaps by now it’s in full colour.
Little did I know that when I touched down in the UK after a lovely flight, that it would take three times as long to get home as it did to fly in from France.We arrived bang on time, picked up my car and left the airport at 11pm. Half and hour later on the southbound motorway, my car was making strange noises. My friend asked if my tyres were okay, she’s considerably more practical than I am, most people on this planet are. So I had no idea. She said we should probably stop at the next services a few miles ahead. Two minutes later she said we need to stop NOW.
I pulled onto the hard shoulder and we saw that my car had a puncture. So it was cold, drizzling and very dark. Most of the traffic was huge lorries driving at crazy speeds and we were stood in a ditch, behind the barrier with cold, sandaled feet hoping my tiny car didn’t get hit.
It took a while for me to remember who provided my breakdown cover, but luckily there was a good signal and once details were taken a very efficient Green Flag lady said someone would be with us as soon as possible.
Pretty soon I had a text letting me know the name of the technician and the registration number of his vehicle and that he would arrive by 1.44am. That was an hour and 20 minutes to wait!
I didn’t know they’d sent another text saying the technician would be there by 2.15, probably just as well, we were already pretty miserable by then, but singing nonsense songs to cheer ourselves up.
Normally on the motorway, we see police cars buzzing around hooping to catch speeding drivers, and the breakdown company had informed Highway the we were an ‘incident’. It would have been reassuring if one had nearby and stopped to check we were okay. No such luck, I bet there would have been if I was speeding though!
Lewis from Newport arrived just after 2.15. He’d driven around 70 miles and had us back on the road in half an hour, driving home on a compact spare tyre at 50 mph. I crashed into bed at 3.40 am.
Breaking down on a motorway late at night is most women’s worst nightmare isn’t it? But never mind, I’ll focus on the nice parts of the journey home from Marseille.
Happy travels everyone!
I nosed through one of these windows.
of the Hotel de Ville, Marseille.
And I was able to see right across an empty room that was being renovated, to this pretty window and it’s shadows.
So I thought I’d share with Leya and you of course!
A dog’s got to do what a dog’s got to do.
When I’m away from home, I always miss Flora and George, so I talk to strange dogs just like I talk to strange people!
Thanks Leya, everyone loves windows!
A unusual window above, to me, even more unusual blue roof tiles.
A high, partly obscured window.
I can’t remember ever seeing a luthier’s window.
You have until next Friday to join this weeks challenge, Leya would be pleased to see you, she has Polish windows.