Blossom before Christmas. Viburnum farreri, Farrer's Wayfaring Tree, St Urbanusweg, Venlo, The Netherlands
Though the Sun was low in the sky, the Day before Christmas brought nice blue heavens. And to my delight Farrer's Wayfaring Tree was beginning to blossom next to a favorite pond of mine just down the road. Always pretty, and I've posted photos of that tree here before.
'Farreri' reminds of Reginald John Farrer (1880-1920). He was an untiring English author of books on horticulture. Moreover, he travelled erratically and adventurously all over the Far East to collect plants, and he died on the Chinese-Burmese border. Highly eccentric Farrer was also a 'failed' poet, and a friend of Edith Sitwell (1887-1964) with whom he discussed poetry. The Pink of this Flower brought to mind her poem 'Springing Jack', and I cite it here to honor Farrer:
Green wooden leaves clap light away,
Severely practical, as they
Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . .
The showman’s face is cubed clear as
The shapes reflected in a glass
Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech
Fumbling for space from each to each).
The fusty showman fumbles, must
Fit in a particle of dust
The universe, for fear it gain
Its freedom from my cube of brain.
Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace
Behind my crude-striped wooden face
As I, a puppet tinsel-pink
Leap on my springs, learn how to think—
Till like the trembling golden stalk
Of some long-petalled star, I walk
Through the dark heavens, and the dew
Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.
Blossom before Christmas. Viburnum farreri, Farrer's Wayfaring Tree, St Urbanusweg, Venlo, The Netherlands
Though the Sun was low in the sky, the Day before Christmas brought nice blue heavens. And to my delight Farrer's Wayfaring Tree was beginning to blossom next to a favorite pond of mine just down the road. Always pretty, and I've posted photos of that tree here before.
'Farreri' reminds of Reginald John Farrer (1880-1920). He was an untiring English author of books on horticulture. Moreover, he travelled erratically and adventurously all over the Far East to collect plants, and he died on the Chinese-Burmese border. Highly eccentric Farrer was also a 'failed' poet, and a friend of Edith Sitwell (1887-1964) with whom he discussed poetry. The Pink of this Flower brought to mind her poem 'Springing Jack', and I cite it here to honor Farrer:
Green wooden leaves clap light away,
Severely practical, as they
Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . .
The showman’s face is cubed clear as
The shapes reflected in a glass
Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech
Fumbling for space from each to each).
The fusty showman fumbles, must
Fit in a particle of dust
The universe, for fear it gain
Its freedom from my cube of brain.
Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace
Behind my crude-striped wooden face
As I, a puppet tinsel-pink
Leap on my springs, learn how to think—
Till like the trembling golden stalk
Of some long-petalled star, I walk
Through the dark heavens, and the dew
Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.