f4f3 is away

I'm on holiday. Normally this would mean I'd be in an exciting big city, or pushing my bike uphill through Scottish rain, or even ticking off cultural sites while travelling between them by train. I'd be hitting the most interesting restaurants the area had to offer, and getting blitzed at least every other night.

This week, however, it's mostly meant sitting beside a swimming pool when the sun is up and in a massive jacuzzi when it isn't. Interspersed with meals which have been filling, if a bit bland. I've had, I think, two alcoholic drinks since I got here (three, now I come to think of it - I had a glass of absolutely vile wine while watching Celtic beat Spartak Moscow).

The sea is about 150 yards away, at the bottom of a vast and quiet beach. The hotel is small (40 rooms) but it has a good sized swimming pool and spa. The food, as I say, is indifferent, but there's plenty of it - the buffet breakfast goes on until 11, and I haven't had lunch before 3 so far.

The weather has been remarkably good. I was expecting what we seem to have today - breezy, and probably around 20 degrees. What we got was 5 straight days of cloudless skies and temperature in the 25-30 range. I suspect that's had a lot to do with me staying close by the hotel.

I've read quite a bit - about two books a day, and I'm partway through the new Culture novel (lots of fun so far). At some point on Monday morning, I lifted my head from a book, looked across the pool, took a sip of water and said to widgetfox "I'm happy." 

And so I am...

Was National Poetry Day yesterday? Doesn't matter...

You asked, Who will look after the garden when I am gone? 
By Brian Patten

'I will,' said January. 
'I will anchor it to the earth with snowdrops. 
I will give it my stone, the garnet.' 

'It is mine,' said February. 
'I will feed it the memory of all that grows. 
I will welcome it with my stone the amethyst and with primrose.'

‘I will coax it with bloodstone and daffodil,’ said March,
Like a boxer battered by winter
I will lift myself from the frosty canvas of the earth to welcome it.’

'With diamond and daisy I will seduce it. 
I will soak it in shower after shower,' said April. 
'In the yawny earth its seeds will riot.' 

'I will make it dizzy with emeralds 
And the fumes of the hawthorn,' said May. 
'It will know of nothing but play.'

‘And I will adorn it with necklaces of honeysuckle and ruby,’ said June.
‘Their clasps will be made out of the honeybees wings.’
It will dance to my languid tune.’

'I will contain it,' said July. 
'I will handcuff it with briar and chrysolite, 
Drug it with the scent of roses.'

August spoke from the garden’s still centre.
‘I will weep layer upon layer of sardonyx.
I will teach it the brevity of poppies.’

‘When its bones begin to creak
I will cure it with aster and opal,’
Promised September

I will guide it towards sleep with the cold light of sapphires.
For its lullaby I will provide the swan-song of dahilias,’
Said October.

‘Under the dead weight of chrysanthemums I will bury it,’
Said November.
‘I will give it a headstone of topaz, a rosary of berries.’ 

'And I will guard its sleep,' said December. 
'On a pillow of moonstone 
It will dream of holly and the coming snowdrop.'