Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
Every time I see a crocus, I feel sad. So sweet and blue: it is no-one’s favourite bloom and never the crown jewel of a garden. Florists never include it in their arrangements. Few artists paint it. And rarely has there been a poem or even a limerick to honour this poor little flower. The …
All my life I’ve been told the story of the tulip that had grown from the pavement, but I never really believed it until I saw it for myself. She was as enchanting as a fairy tale. Her bright red petals were awash with orange and gold so that she burned like a sunrise in …
Writing on Tangents