Nuns fret not

Ullswater

A riot of wildflowers again today, the foxgloves on Gowbarrow were like flares amongst the bracken. I felt as though I was walking through the finale of a firework display erupting as I made my way back down.  I managed to capture a butterfly, a fritillary I think but not sure what type,  it flitted off before I could get a closer shot ... perhaps someone might recognise it?

My thoughts were on a recent conversation about the pros and cons of our different lives and constraints and perceived freedoms or lack thereof. I was reminded of Wordsworth's poem below and working within the constraints of the sonnet form. A sonnet on mindfulness in its way. And so I had to add the extra blip of the bee and the foxglove (which was one of about 6 million that I took of 'the bee was here', ' the bee is nearly here', 'the bee was there', 'the bee blur', 'the bee bottom' ... you get the idea ... one of those moments when I was glad it was a digital and not a film camera!)

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room - by William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.