Tag Archives: Margaret Mahy

Season for plums or delicious plum-foolery

It is the season for plums. It is the time for plum deliciousness.

Season for Plums

Season for Plums

Plums make:

a perfectly delightful gift for a friend;

Plums, pretty and perfect

Plums, pretty and perfect and a delicious gift

and a beautiful, bounteous, table decoration;

Laden with Plums

Laden with Plums

;

A Vase of Plums

A Vase of Plums

Plums make delectable eatables:

like gleaming, sugar-shimmering, baked compote;

Baked Plums for the Table

Baked Plums for the Table

and rich coffee cake.

Plum Coffee Cake

Plum Coffee Cake

[ take a slice, please do ūüôā ]

An invitation to a slice

An invitation to a slice

And plums are fabulous for frivolous¬† fool…ishness¬† ;

and golden jam,

Jono's Jam

Jono’s Jam

and plums make a jolly good story, too, don’t they? ūüėČ

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Out of the Gloom come Gems of Loveliness

Continuing on the theme of   surprises ,  it is surprising what gems of loveliness can be found, tucked away,  in the gloom

There be GLOOM!

There be GLOOM!

of the back rooms of our lives.

Inspired by a friend’s gift of plums from her backyard tree,

Plums, pretty and perfect

Plums, pretty and perfect, rich gems of juicy fruit

I was fossicking in the attic,

in search of my books on  JAM , plum jam, when my eyes lit upon the long-forgotten face of Sister Wendy Beckett,

contemplative nun, writer, broadcaster and art lover, who recently appeared on¬†Desert Island Discs, talking of her life, her love of¬† Schubert’s Serenade , and confessing to the sin of being nasty to her little sister ūüė¶

I was thrilled to see her again and to reconnect with her meditations on peace, and¬† to realise how greatly she influenced my understanding of art,¬† in the days before online art galleries and Wiki and blogging. ¬† What a remarkable person, I heard myself saying, communicating, as she does, so clearly, from the silence and¬† physical confines¬† of her world. …

not unlike this poem, of which Sister Wendy, defender of Classics and Latin, would surely  approve, which my daughter wrote for me, in  the solitude of her nights in   Far North Queensland

To a  Peony

(in which my daughter remembers the day, when she was extremely sad, and her mother gave her a sweet-scented peony from the garden )

Welcome back Sweet Peony

Welcome back Sweet Peony

Dark leaves, put forth thy anniversary.
Honey may burn; thy nectar rises up
like sugar syrup in a warmer cup,
ribbons the water. And say how can it be,
thou growest so magenta, when the hew
of thy first stock was white? Unless it was
among the hedgehogs and the heucheras
the lost  god stopped and wept his ancient dew.
Colours stand faster in the dimming air;
so in the long grey drizzling afternoon
of dying hope, was thy expressive bloom
placed by a gentle hand into my care;
I see it still, in my mind, in the gloom
unfolding endless petals in my empty room.

*td* (first draft)

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