The weather has broken. There's only a watery sun. It's June but we're not in Oklahoma so no bustin' out. This is a Scottish lockdown. We're staying home. Peering out of the windows. Seeing what can be predicted from those broody, moody clouds that are passing slowly, headed for some random destination out across the North Sea. Slippery. Every so often the optimistic sun peeps out and I scurry to the garden to rearrange some plants that hopefully will grow to create a "display". Not that we're in any kind of competition or race, it's just for those fat little furry bees, ladybirds and the butterflies, creatures that we all have a soft spot for so long as they don't sting.
We hope that they might survive and so inherit the planet once our shambolic reign is over and we are reduced to dust. They are survivors, but only up to a point. You see clever and industrious as the insects are they are clearly unable to open the seed packets and turn on the water taps so as to create the conditions they actually need to survive. Evolution is a bit of a broken system if you ask me.
|"Your use of quasi religious images and feeble plagiarism does you no favours and will win you no friends or fans." - Well Wishers who know things about art and the artistic establishment.|