Writings

Indoor Lily Pond

There is something about Fletcher Moss Vicarage Garden to which, like Monet to his own Lily Pond, I am always drawn to return. It is full of specialities - this time a tree covered in large blooms scented like lime flowers, hydrangea flowers  bigger than dinner plates (for all is somehow supersized) and a herbaceous border which is quintessentially English garden. The indoor pond is housed in a greenhouse, now locked, where I used to go in years ago to admire the orchids growing there. Now it grows alpines and no doubt some find their way to the planting in the Alpine garden rockeries once you move on from the bees in the lavender and the unusual plant collection begun by Fletcher Moss himself, incumbent Victorian reverend. He believed the vicarage to be haunted but I have only ever seen it spilling over with sunshine through its stained glass windows on afternoon vists in the summer.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.