| The Mother, cocooned in Leitrim, takes out her frustration on wandering roses and other wayward strays, who assume they can travel freely in the empire of her garden. She’s terrified of bees or she’d have the secateurs gripped in her arthritic hand while she hoists her cobalt knee onto a wobbly stool to stand and butcher the bumbled Berberis Darwinii.
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| Servant to a menagerie of creatures, some human. Poet. Tells stories. Makes a show of herself. Beekeeper. Takes photies. Throws knives. http://trishbennettblog.wordpress.com/ |