As a child growing up in Christchurch in the middle of the last century – have always wanted to say that – how medieval it sounds – I remember the first ice on the puddles, the first blackening of the leaves in Dad’s garden, the digging out of gloves and mittens. And the bonfires of autumn’s leaves, where we cooked potatoes in the hot ashes. Scorched and sooty, they tasted like nectar to us. Then there were the flower patterns on the frosted glass of the windows. We must have been hardy little souls, despite the chilblains, and the tears as numb fingers thawed out on the school heaters.
the consummate artist
(picture from Pinterest) for Haibun Monday