HELEN LANG: Dean Park is nice in spring

It is simply wonderful at any time, but especially at this time of year.

A nice reader sent me a poem about the crows at Kits Beach in Vancouver. Look for it on this page.

 

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I’m going to cut off the one remaining blossom on my clematis and give it to my friend Joan when I see her this morning. It is not beautiful, but it is interesting. It looks more like a swatch of material you could use for a man’s shirt than a flower. Oh well. Thus endeth the sad story of the Homely Clematis.

Last week Anni brought me a lovely bouquet of tulips, many of them called the delightful name “Queen of the Night” which, as you might guess, are such a dark purple they are almost black. Whoever came up with that name is very clever.

My daughter who has been living with me recently moved into a place of her own in Victoria. So I am alone with my thoughts, which are a bit sad and nervous right now, having just read about the horrible earthquake in Nepal (and remembering that we live on a fault line ourselves  and trying not to think about it, but without success). One of my daughters moved, years ago, to the B.C. interior, concerned that if we had “The Big One,” the whole Island might sink beneath the waves.

A Canadian Atlantis? I do hope not.

On Sunday afternoon Jean J. took me for a drive up through Dean Park. It is simply wonderful at any time, but especially at this time of year. The gardens are always lovely, but especially now, in the spring. We stopped in to see one of Jean’s friends, Kim Smith, who showed us her truly lovely garden. She presented me with a fine tomato plant (whose name I neglected to ask) but it looks like a strong healthy plant and I’m sure the fruit will be delicious! Thank you, Kim!

Helen Lang has been the Peninsula News Review’s garden columnist for more than 30 years.

 

Crows at Kits Beach

 

Crumbs?

You ask me to share.

You, in your black suit awkward and cautious

you walk then hop closer.

I throw egg, then muffin, just a crumb, for you.

Your friends arrive then.

Car window opens further so I can reach.

They flee, all but you, and one other.

Sweetheart or baby? … I cannot tell.

You, with such tenderness and stillness.

Suddenly no interest in treats,

I become invisible to you.

Beak to beak, eyes searching your other

you stand so close, and touch then, so gentle,

and I watch the beauty of your bond

and am thankful you felt safe to stay so near.

The intimacy I witness brings sweetness

to my day.   — by Kathleen Ahearne