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| Shirley Poppy, Papaver rhoeas |
Cathy and I were out on the work yesterday morning. She came with me on my magazine route calls, which was very helpful. We found two people at home, and had some good talks. Margaret was just on her way out, but she stopped and talked for about a quarter of an hour. She has so many questions. I hope she will keep asking us them, as we can show her that the answers are in the Inspired Scriptures.
Wonderful answers they are too
Cathy came back for coffee and biscuits - and a bit of banter with the Captain, then I got lunch and fell asleep...I wish I hadn't as I didn't sleep well last night. And am now more tired than ever. Neither of us slept well.
Nute just put a graphic account of a spider attacking a fly on fb - well observed... and horrific. And it reminded me of a Betjeman poem.
The Cottage Hospital
by John Betjeman
At the end of a long-walled garden in a red provincial town,
A brick path led to a mulberry- scanty grass at its feet.
I lay under blackening branches where the mulberry leaves hung down
Sheltering ruby fruit globes from a Sunday-tea-time heat.
Apple and plum espaliers basked upon bricks of brown;
The air was swimming with insects, and children played in the street.
Out of this bright intentness into the mulberry shade
Musca domestica (housefly) swung from the August light
Slap into slithery rigging by the waiting spider made
Which spun the lithe elastic till the fly was shrouded tight.
Down came the hairy talons and horrible poison blade
And none of the garden noticed that fizzing, hopeless fight.
Say in what Cottage Hospital whose pale green walls resound
With the tap upon polished parquet of inflexible nurses' feet
Shall I myself be lying when they range the screens around?
And say shall I groan in dying, as I twist the sweaty sheet?
Or gasp for breath uncrying, as I feel my senses drown'd
While the air is swimming with insects and children play in the street?
A brick path led to a mulberry- scanty grass at its feet.
I lay under blackening branches where the mulberry leaves hung down
Sheltering ruby fruit globes from a Sunday-tea-time heat.
Apple and plum espaliers basked upon bricks of brown;
The air was swimming with insects, and children played in the street.
Out of this bright intentness into the mulberry shade
Musca domestica (housefly) swung from the August light
Slap into slithery rigging by the waiting spider made
Which spun the lithe elastic till the fly was shrouded tight.
Down came the hairy talons and horrible poison blade
And none of the garden noticed that fizzing, hopeless fight.
Say in what Cottage Hospital whose pale green walls resound
With the tap upon polished parquet of inflexible nurses' feet
Shall I myself be lying when they range the screens around?
And say shall I groan in dying, as I twist the sweaty sheet?
Or gasp for breath uncrying, as I feel my senses drown'd
While the air is swimming with insects and children play in the street?
So now I must say again that the first chapter of Genesis assures us that nature was not made "red in tooth and claw", and that we were not made to die. We live in the tragedy created when our first parents made that terrible decision to cut themselves (and us, their unborn children) off from their Creator, their Source of life.
A rescue is close at hand.
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