An English Country Garden…

My children and friends and life are home on the range but my roots are still embedded here on “England’s green and pleasant land,” prophetic words written by William Blake.

As my fearless cowboy and I walked this evening we explored the hidden streets of Beckenham a mere stone’s throw away from where we live.  There we found mansions with gated driveways nestled behind trees.  We walked along a manicured country lane, we saw paraqueets flying through the air and heard the blackbirds’ glorious evening song, we crushed daisies beneath our feet and admired ugly, but strangely compelling, fungus at the base of a tree.  We wondered, were we really still in London?

Then we broke upon a meadow and in the distance a resplendent  country home presided over the local golf course.  Beyond we saw a cricket game in play and behind us we could hear the confident thud of tennis racquet driving a ball home.

Amidst the splendour there were discrete blocks of flats rubbing shoulders with the nouveau riche of suburbia.  As we shifted out gaze ahead we saw a road and were immediately back in London, startled from our country reverie.

The marvel that is London resides in the parks and commons and gardens that surprise the wayfarer.

Earlier today Malia and I had been at a mall in nearby Bromley.  We were on our way to the civic centre and by chance we found ourselves in the centre of a garden called Queen’s Park, a wonder of flower beds bursting with colour, the perriwinkles, geraniums and poenies fighting to be seen.  The lawn a light and dark wonder of green stripes.

Hanging from every, and I mean, every, lamp post in all the parts of London I’ve been to so far, are baskets teeming with pink, purple, blue, red and orange flowers, flowing voluptuously over the edges of their pots, refusing to be kept under control.  The borough of London must employ a host of gardeners who work  in secret, I have yet to catch a labourer with muddy hands tending the gardens or pots.

The impression is one of contrived unkemptness, a controlled overgrowth of rapturous blooming that can only be an English garden!

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