Strawberry Fields

The house in this landscape is – or was – called Strawberry Fields.  When it was new, in the early ‘80s, a friend of mine lived here.  Her eldest son and mine got to know each other as small tots and I used to take him here to play.  They are still close friends.  I never knew you could see the house from the viewpoint of this blip.  I’m a bit slow like that.
 
I read in the paper that (possibly my all time favourite poet and Nobel Laureate) Derek Walcott died yesterday.  My desert island book would be his long poem Omeros.  Here’s a tiny taste of it:
 
She thought: I dreamed of this house with woods around it,
with trees I’d read of, whose flowers I’d never seen.
Part of a barracks, with no noise to surround it
 
but cicadas chattering like my sewing machine.
I loved the young teak with bodies clean as birches
in light that freckled the leopard shade of the path
 
when martins at dusk with their crisscrossing stitches
would sew the silk sky, or preen around the birdbath.
I saw it when we first came.   ...
 
If you don’t know him, he came from St Lucia.  Try hearing it with a Caribbean accent :)
 
Hope your weekend’s a blast  xx

PS: The result of yesterday blossom/choc cake poll:
12 blossom
2 cake
3 dead heat   :-D