My marvellous Kent Claret vine ... I bought it from Victoriana Nursery to keep my ever-faithful calendulas company. Friend Wendy recommends the grapes for grape jelly.

Happy harvesting … my Great Auntie Bee's watercolour of farming life as it used to be, painted in 1950.

The creative mind in action … Coppicing days, Pheasants Coppice, Bishopsbourne.

History …In the garden of Serre de la Madonne, Menton. Seems I wasn’t the only admirer.

Happy birthday! ... My 50th Birthday Party 9th September 2010 at Jenny's, also with Hilda, Becca, Vittorio, Robin and Yvonne and Bianca - Caprese Michelangelo, Toscana. A very special day.

Birthday girl ... Mrs G picking flowers on the morning of her 80th Birthday, a few seconds before she realised that I had arrived.

Here's some verse by Roberto that isn't averse to making you feel better, for cheering up those who mightn't have thought they needed a spot of cheering up.

Ode to Phobos Grunt

HOW TERRIFIC - it's in the Pacific!
And feeling a little bit Chile,
One report said Atlantic,
But sounded so frantic,
I think it was probably Scilly.

Image of part of  a HealingGardens co dot uk webpage to show the poem, The River.
The River ...
Image of part of a HealingGardens co dot uk webpage to illustrate the article.

Busker on the tube

ON THE MECHANICAL WAY, to the mechanical day,
Wearing jeans, disappeared at both knees,
You sing for a song, and then smiling, you're gone,
With small handfuls of 'Thank-You' and 'Please.'

You're loved and you're hated and society bated,
For reminding us all of shelved dreams,
And revenge is the fine, and that neat scissored line,
You can see on our smart weekend jeans.

A Gardener's Song

Or pity not the gardener
(To whom this poem is humbly dedicated in true gratitude.)

EACH LEAF on the tree,
Is a penny for me,
When golden, they fall to the ground,
Though only the gardener hears these coins fall,
- To others they don't make a sound.

Those plants we call 'weed',
Help gardeners succeed,
In paying for heat, as we slumber,
Though we have to pretend,
That these weeds aren't our friends,
When our customers curse at their numbers.

(And should these kind weeds,
Produce lots of seeds,
Then our heating is paid,
Until we down-spade).

The grass growing green,
Makes a gardener beam,
Annual income, in front of his nose,
And the grass can't be sent,
To Madras or Tashkent,
Or be watered by trans-Asian hose.

The autumnal breeze,
Signals gardener's ease,
And clouds are our duvet and pillows,
The coolness brings calm,
And winter's a balm,
As outside, winter wind billows.

And as others complain,
We hear in 'our' rain,
Liquid assets, for all of next year,
Most cut-backs are done,
In our hearts shines the sun,
Warmed, as the first frosts appear.


Robert Graham's | Email | Wye, Ashford, Kent TN25 5DD | © 2000 - 2019