Imagine being a pea?

Syria

An evacuated Syrian girl looks out of the broken window of a bus.

In this summer heatwave I appreciate the sentiment of Robert Graves, born this day 1895.  An English writer, son of an Irish poet of the Gaelic Revival.  Robert is best known for his novel “I, Claudius”.

 

Give us rain; by Robert Graves

‘Give us Rain, Rain,’ said the bean and the pea,
‘Not so much Sun,
Not so much Sun.’
But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,
and no rain falls and no waters run.

‘Give us Peace, Peace,’ said the peoples oppressed,
‘Not so many Flags,
Not so many Flags.’
But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,
and the children starve, they shiver in rags.

The March of Time

Daffodils.jpg

So here we are on the 31st of March and we reach my favourite time of year.  The clock has sprung forward and at last it feels that we have bested the winter and emerged again into the world.  The spring flowers are brightening up the sere landscape and the first tender buds are emerging from the hawthorns.

Time to get busy in the garden sowing the new season vegetables.  We play the annual game of chance with the weather.  When to plant out the seedlings nurtured in the conservatory?  Too late and they become pot bound.  Too early and we risk a late frost carrying them off and ruining weeks of work.

Frost and Spring….reminds me of a poem….

March 26th 1974 (R.Frost 100th B’day): by Richard Wilbur

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In wet dull pastures where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch, and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
And making free with natural law?
I stopped and blinked, and then I saw
A fact as eerie as a dream.
There was a subtle flood of stream
Moving upon the face of things.
It came from standing pools and springs
And what of snow was still around;
It came of winter’s giving ground
So that the freeze was coming out,
As when a set mind, blessed by doubt,
Relaxes into mother-wit.
Flowers, I said, will come of it.