The rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy


William Blake

Marget shared with us some of the flowers given to her on the day of Guy's funeral.  They were the same as the flowers on his coffin.  The roses have been wonderful but are fading and gradually dying. I may blip them in colour and taken in natural light one day.

I do not feel morose like the poem, but Blake does remind us of the realities of life and death.

Quiet day at home with some cooking and then entertaining "the other Marjorie" for dinner and an evening of convivial conversation.

Still no snow.