Every year at this time we go to Groombridge Place to see the daffodils. "Ten thousand saw I at a glance", but somehow less romantic, less wild, and more organised than the poet witnessed.
I pass a man walking towards me seemingly powered by an MP3 player. Wires emerge from his ears. He is shouting or singing at the top of his voice, you can't be sure. Then again, is he marching, rather than walking? You can't be sure.
As a preliminary to writing a special birthday letter, I check my fountain pen. Out comes a spurt of ink which makes a lovely blot on a piece of paper placed there to catch it. What a fascinating thing is an ink blot! The frayed, fractal pattern of its edges opens doors to speculation and, at the same time, evokes the memory of Hermann Roscharche, who has us reveal hidden aspects of our personalities according to the way we interpret its shape. More to speculate about. I see the profile of a laughing man in a wig.
2 comments:
No matter how organized they are, daffodils always seem like they're chatting to each other.
I see the profile of a laughing man in a wig.
What a relief. Had it been a laughing man in a hat I would've worried about your sanity :)
... I am happy to see these photos with flowers, so different from pieces of wrappings found on the ground...
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