Frost crystals round a withered hydrangea bloom.
A father is teaching his son to kick a football. "Keep it low," he says. "Stop the ball first. Keep it down. Hit it at the top." The boy thinks he knows better. The ball flies up too high, misses the target. "I'm trying to honest with you," says the father. "I'm trying to be honest with you."
There is a tall, grey haired lady who sits outside the Grove Tavern most afternoons, a glass of white wine in front of her, a cigarette in her hand. We greet here as we pass. We refer to her between ourselves as the old lady. But she is almost certainly no older than us.
3 comments:
I think I've said before how these elements always seem to link up, often in undefinable ways. Always a stimulating visit. Thank you.
I wonder about her story, that 'old Lady'.
She's very jolly, "the old lady". She arrives and departs by taxi. Though probably on her own, she is clearly committed to enjoying life.
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