She talks of family planning with spiders, gives advice to dogs on the subject of manners, compliments flowers on their beauty, discusses pesticides with bumblebees, speaks of romance with butterflies, lectures cats on their toilet habits, and mostly, she just tells off the wasps. Wasps are the Hells Angels of her garden. When hot, she undresses. When cold she wears layer upon layer. Rarely is she colour co-ordinated. She looks best naked. This one is of the earth. She has shown me many things from nature that being held a hostage of concrete and tarmac had denied me. She takes in waifs and strays. Gives a ray of hope to the unfortunate with kind words. When the mood takes her she may prey upon the weaknesses of pretentious humanity. In days of yore, in drink, she sometimes destroyed such beings. She is blessed with great cutting wit and cries giant crystal ball tears when laughing. She laughs a lot. She does not ride that savage downhill slalom of melancholy that is my want, although if left alone too long she climbs the walls of tedium. Her smile can illuminate a cathedral, her frown may slam shut its gothic doors and herald the crepuscular certainty of nightfall. A brave one, she has the small scars of childhood recklessness about her limbs. Accident prone, she bruises her body with regularity yet never her heart. To her there is no calamity in her clumsiness, the breakage of manmade objects matters not a jot. She says such things are replaceable anyway. Those mortals who cause the pain born of malice she would lock away forever. She calls small children and the very old, ‘My angel’. Infants would follow her to the ends of the earth. Sometimes she has the mouth of a navvy, other times the eloquence of a bard. She conceived our child in the Polynesian suite of a French chateau. As is her way, a certain ‘savoir-faire’. When giving birth she sweltered in the body heat of her own endeavour. Nearly a day in labour, and oblivious to the comings and goings of others, she insisted the midwife undress her. Enthrallingly naked, she bore her son. Natural instinct is second nature to those of the earth, those impish daughters of Eve. Fate wed us, eternity binds us. My Celtic lady is out of step with the rest. Captivatingly mad, yet with no comprehension that this is so. She has emboldened me, I think I am her rock.

Was it really 101 yonks ago I penned this piece for my lady, my Shirl? Likely it was. Whatever, I did post this on WP some 8 years ago. I decided for a galaxy of enduring, sugary reasons, now was a good time to retell her story. Without a word of a lie I feel that with Shirl forever at my side I’m the luckiest man alive.

Should my old book of poetry, where Shirl is featured on the front cover, take your fancy, along with the rest of my work can be purchased from AMAZON in PAPERBACK form or on regular KINDLE as well as for FREE on KINDLE UNLIMITED click on the picture below. Alternatively simply enter my name, ‘Mike Steeden’, on Amazon wherever you are. To access said poetry book, ‘Gentlemen Prefer a Pulse’, click on the picture below.

Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, and lending, prohibited.

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