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It was disorientating enough, arriving back in England after 14 months away – and matters were intensified by the fact it felt more like November than Spring. The trees were bare and the air had a frosty bite. One week later, and it looks like things are brightening with buds on trees and sun in the sky. I’ve even ventured out of my duffle coat. But that’s enough of the weather report (I am after all English), and after that little interlude, what better excuse for a reminiscing display of San Pancho’s finest flowers. Now that place knows how to do Spring!
We’re not sure of their names so we’ve taken the liberty of assigning our own, including the splendid Peekaboo Player above.
Milky Fire-Blossoms begin to bloom on Calle Chile
The crispy crown of a wayward Purple Inkfish
Succulent jazz-blossoms in a silky glow
The crumpled face of Jeronimo, a blushing pug-rose
Symbols of enlightenment shooting like slow fireworks from the filth of a local pond
A superb bunch of sensuous War Trumpets herald something occurring somewhere…
The pink tissue paper of a Sunset Cabbage Flower in the early evening
The Flower With Nine Lives has very few dreams
Jimmy Thistles (known for their outrageous morning musk)
Butter mandalas, the demi-queens of the garden
Peering into the fractal face of the Humming Drop
Geoffrey Chaucer’s Elbow stands guard over his lair
A delicate Infinite Gorilla
And lastly, the reckless Bungee Ballerina.
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