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Kate Hall

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A Host of Crumpled Daffodils

Today is supposed to be a writing day. So far I have been to the printmaker’s shop in south London, for materials, a journey that took me some two and a half hours. On my return I remember that I need to photocopy some artwork for a possible book cover, post a letter and pay the vet.  So I decide for my health’s sake (writing is such a sedentary occupation) to take a walk in the park near the photocopier’s and the vet’s; that way I can also pick up some pot herbs from the garden centre.  I return at two thirty-five, counting on my fingers and frantically muttering the following in various combinations and orders.

children’s voices         holiday voices                     Easter holidays
Easter holiday voices                        Easter children’s voices
crumpled daffodils                      the daffodils have finished
last daffodils turned to paper              daffodils turned to paper
the smell of cut grass                              smell of cut grass

I write all this down on an old envelope convinced that I have forgotten the most brilliant version whilst buying (poetically enough) rosemary, sage and thyme in the garden centre. I settle on the following; you may not agree - I’m not sure myself but sometimes you just have to set the thing free.

the smell of cut grass
Easter holiday voices
crumpled daffodils

 

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