Midsummer Blues

The days and months seem to have drifted past us like puffs of dandelion seed. We have had the house full of visitors most of the time, with children tumbling out of every crack, spilling into the garden where I valiantly stood, day and night, ready to defend my thirteen carefully groomed English rose bushes from all critters tall and tiny. Various stacks of books have stubbornly grown around the house like crooked stalactites, some of them with little hearts and smileys drawn into the quite discernible cover of dust that has settled on them as if to sullenly reclaim them from their owner, who so clearly is otherwise engaged. It won’t be long now though. Surely between the piles of linnens to be laundered, and dutifully folded, and the creepy little weeds to be hoed, I might find some time. With summer here and the days clinging on into the night, I might pick one up. Some time.