Wednesday, 28 August 2013

The silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.

This is the rather puzzling aftermath of a long Bank Holiday Monday - who loses just the one shoe, on their front doorstep?

Was he staggering home drunk and it sort of 'fell off' as he was fumbling with the keys?

Or, imagine the scene, you were just leaving the house, carefully closing the door behind you, and again, the shoe just fell off - that could happen, who would notice such a thing?

It was the last holiday of the summer, the last of the year. Beautiful August days, dried out grasses, wilting bushes and blue, blue skies. Something worth celebrating. 

For some reason I got the urge to pick blackberries, which I haven't done for many years.

Now I look like I've been in a fight, scratched all over, old torn clothes. Purple lips, like I took a drugs overdose. Coming home really tired and happy. And now I've got some tubs of blackberry juice in the freezer, waiting for sad autumn days, to remind me of August.

I think I'm going to try and make some ice cream.

When the blackberries are ready (beginning of August really - I was late) old friends become enemies, or at least deceitful, for a month.
Trying to hide where the best bushes are.

My main rivals were the Punk horses - they have a sweet tooth and are rampaging into the bushes, then pulling back crunching mouthfuls and, I swear, they have silly expressions on their faces. Not unlike me.

                                  I can't reach,Mum?

The Song of Wandering Aengus

                                               by W. B. Yeats


I went out to the hazel wood,  

Because a fire was in my head,  

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,  

And hooked a berry to a thread;  

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,  

I dropped the berry in a stream  

And caught a little silver trout.  


When I had laid it on the floor  

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,  

And someone called me by my name:  

It had become a glimmering girl  

With apple blossom in her hair  

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.  


Though I am old with wandering  

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,  

I will find out where she has gone,  

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,  

And pluck till time and times are done,  

The silver apples of the moon,  

The golden apples of the sun.

sCLUE No 1

Here’s the question;

7000 what? By whom?


Clue number 1;

It’s a work of art.
When you have the right answer, e-mail it to me.
First one in gets a combat bracelet, made to measure by me.

Neil Harris

(a don't stop till you drop production)

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