Restless Rose Vintage

poppies bleeding their reds into the yellow corn 

norfolk hedgerows and their clusters of vibrant Ladies Bedstraw – i could stuff my medieval mattress right now – the scent is disorientatingly syrupy and rather discombobulating

the texture and lustre of vintage threads wound clumsily over wooden bobbins and the crochet hook that fashions them into flowers

always lace and its exquisite variousness

evening chip-nics on pebble beach at Cley and collecting dried seaweeds in the empty trays as my babies paddle in the furious waves

3/4 sleeve jackets from the fifties perched jauntily over 1930’s rayon petticoats layered endlessly for decency

capes of every vintage variety

playing ‘I imagine’ with my daughter as she says goodbye to her day, building castles in the sky, and watching the sky unreel its cloud cinema 

reading ‘Little Dorrit’ and marvelling at how we try so hard to stay free in a world that wants to imprison us and how we dare to do and dream in places that always draw our ideals (big or small) ‘down’ and how we persevere because it is our nature to tumble always on