roses, books, @2paperflowers and a train not taken.

darlings

firstly a mention for your aural/visual and imagination’s delight – may we present two very talented singer-songwriter-ballad-delivery-muses

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and then a gift (exchange) from Miss Vickie Lester given at Tea yesterday.

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signed copy – SIGNED COPY! of #TwiceOverLightly that we wrote so Extensively about (and from) during our last few months before Leaving Manhattan (not to be confused with that film by Mr. Nicolas Cage about *sad_look* Vegas – a very different sort of taking one’s leave from a city Indeed)

and then – today – we *almost* caught a Train.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAbecause we saw one – on the way. 
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then got Rather distracted by a rose garden (sort of) nearby (if one took a detour through the Park en route to meet someone – if one wasn’t actually in the Wrong Bloody Place – and had to rush back to pick up the car – again – NOT taking a Train So Tempted as we were – and then drive another few miles south to the Correct Location). OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

but the roses were lovely.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAand Trains are Awfully Tempting.

especially because they remind one of Mr. Brian Patten’s Poems from the (early) 1960s. 

And later he caught a bus and she a train
And all there was between them then
was rain.

or perhaps they remind You of stanzas by Mr. Betjeman and his contemporaries?

“The train at Pershore station was waiting that Sunday night
Gas light on the platform, in my carriage electric light,
Gas light on frosty evergreens, electric on Empire wood……..

ah yes.

trains and poems and roses and songwriters……

perfect for a Tuesday.

or any day, really.

non?

 

five photographs (ours) and a poem (from Sir. J. Betjeman)

darlings

we’re RUSHING out the door ever so soon – but wanted to leave you a moment of reverie  in the meantime – five photographs from the past day and a Poem that we read as the sun dipped behind the Palm Trees while sipping tea-with-lemon.

enjoy.

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A Subaltern’s Love Song

poem by John Betjeman

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father’s euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o’clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light’s in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing’s the light on your hair.

By roads “not adopted”, by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o’clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl’s hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I’m engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.