Pink Daisies

Hung proudly in 1986, they always made her smile, something about the pink daisies. She loved them. He said no-one ever went by, they were the last cottage before the mountain, so why bother. She said that wasn't the point.  She washed them twice a year and they looked like new.
After her passing, he tried to do the same  but didn't seem to have the knack. Then he stopped bothering. Small holes, tiny frays, gossamer spider threads. But he kept them up. He smiled too at the pink daisies, but probably for different reasons. When he passed no-one thought to take them down. They're still there.


Today we should have been gallivanting around the countryside on a Rock Art expedition but the forecast was so dire it was rightly cancelled. Guess what - apart from the odd shower it was fine. I think the orange weather warning for more deluges has moved on up to Kerry. Nonetheless we've had a very pleasant day and a fine lunch over-looking Roaringwater Bay and a catch up with R and F who are shortly off doing some fairly serious hiking in Germany.
Today's offering - once cherished nets in a tiny now forlorn cottage, its gardens occupied by four frisky black donkeys.