Walking The Dog

If I put my hand up, if I try to have my say, will anybody listen?  If I tread softly in a wood of silver trees and whisper susurrations; snippets sparsely spoken from my soul - my supplications rising in the warming breeze, will my words rustle any of the paper leaves and stop them falling? Falling, f  a   l     l      i       n        g falling to our precious fragile earth. Fragile is our world. Fragile our grasp of what - it - is. One world. Precious. And us, just, holding on, mere atoms in a surging sea of selfish, greedy strife. Fragile is our hold, our will, our voice. Our life. To right a wrong with words is right. To hit back with fury risks a monster roused. Stirred to act; tit for tat. Tit for tat. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. Think on that. If I put up my hand and cry. And cry. Will it stay the will of leaders who capitulate and bluster and risk throwing o...

Spring. ' The Spring has sprung, the grass is rizz, I wonder where the boidie is ' - words often wrongly attributed to Ogden Nash; instead penned by the more prolific writer, Anonymous.  How do you judge when Spring has sprung? For me, it is stepping outside and the surprise, after a winter of damp, earthy smells, of breathing in warm, green air.  And the jostling, yellow gatherings, bursting above the grass. Or as Wordsworth rather more eloquently put it  " All at once I saw a crowd, A host of yellow daffodils, ... fluttering and dancing in the breeze " I neither flutter nor dance in breezes. Nor do Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins. They do however like a spot of lazing in the Spring sun. Particularly when that lazing involves watching me; gardening. Garden watching is all very well and companionably pleasing even if motivated by we-know-there-are-dog-biscuits-in-one-of-those-gardening-jacket-pockets-so-we'll-...