She stoops to conker

Who says things aren’t speeding up? In my garden, hawthorn berries red as can be by the end of July. On Peckham Rye, I noticed fallen conkers before August was out. One day I stooped to (pick up a) conker.



Say it with flowers


This effulgence of flowers is at the bottom of my road in Peckham Rye. They are growing in an area which was once, years ago, a paddling pool for toddlers. Today it may be 30 degrees outside and the pool would be a joy for small people. But the sight of a host of wildflowers being courted by bees and butterflies is, surely, a joy for everyone. Big and small.


I was sitting at the cafe on Peckham Rye enjoying a cup of coffee when, out of the blue, this poem arrived: a response to the joys of spring. (Why the text appears in double-spacing is something the computer has decreed. But one must rise above these bloody irritations.)

when daffodils jostle with

bluebells, and blossom

fringes boughs and bushes,

and squirrels chase their tails

while birds warble, and dogs

ignore their whistling masters,

and leaves unfurl like

badly-kept secrets, then

spring my love has sprung