24 Dec 2010

A Christmas gift from me to you and yours!

Dear all,
Hello, and  happy, peaceful, playful Christmas! 
And here's my gift to you:  Tamasine, Little Green and the Garden, a little poem-story from my forthcoming collection/production:  'Little Tales, Little Truths'.  

I wrote this one for you. 

This story is for sharing, printing, paper-planing, re-telling, posting to who you love mosting, whatever you wish as it is now your gift.

With love,

Alice x


Tamasine, Little Green and the Garden

Once upon a simple start, there lived a girl, a boy and a garden.
There lived lots of others, of course, but today is the day for Tamasine and the garden. And Little Green.

Tamasine was little too. Her hair was wild – twisting and turning up on itself, phototropic tendrils reaching for the sun. Come spring or summer she could be found with her knees out, mud-dusted in a dress of some sort, sort of, and mucky red boots on her feet. Come autumn, the same but with socks on. Come winter, a bundle of borrowed coats and cloths and goodness knows what (goodness knows, goodness knows). Whatever the season, whatever the weather, she was always naked underneath. Which, by the way, so are you.

Little boy, our little boy is Little Green on account of his size (little) and the colour of the clothes he wore (green. Always too many and always green). He wore sweaters in summer, ten vests in spring, shoes always laced up tight and nice. He often wore a frown upon his face, a quizzical needing-answers sort of frown, which is particularly tricky to balance on your brow.

Tamasine and Little Green were friends. They got on. Two together. They got on in the garden. They got on until one summer.

Ah summer! Sky wide-open blue, wrapping round as sun shone its summer song.
The garden thrived under its baton. All new, all grew!
Rumtumtee POM! Explosions of Dragonflowers and trumpeting Golden Hooters, tiddleumtateeeee - high-pitched patches of Screechroots squirling awkwardly under the intimidatingly silent Thinking Trees. Urrrrrrrr: the familiar steady hum of grass as it grew, sprouting from every spare soily spot and some that were not: leaping off the lower regions of wallsurrrrrrr, struggling up stumpsurrrrr. Trees of Old Age stood strong as boughs bowed down dressed in frilly petal petticoats, leaves unfurling to take a hand, any hand. And down below, in the meadow…

Rolling on her back to belly and back to back again, Tamasine. Tamasine, she reached out to toy with her favourite of favourites…tiniest and purple, littlest leaves shyly hiding behind small simple stalk, most minute of blooms, most tiddlesome, mostly no more than a  bl or an oom. Back to belly again - Tamasine rose up to grab a gathering, a posy of purple, little purple and green.

“This” she announced to Little Green, who was sat cross-legged close by,

“This is my favourite. Favourite of all”

Little Green adjusted his frown to quizzi-concern, lifting his left eyebrow.

“What” he said scornfully “is that?”


“I call this Special”

Simple. Special.

Little Green, raising rightbrow right up now

 “I say weed. Waiting to wilt. I do I.”

“Weed?” said she

“Smothering sprout spreading. Poison to bedding. Dig up weeding. That’s what’s needing!”

His answer, she did not believe.


Tamasine, unlike he, did not juggle confusion & questions on her face
but held all she had in her hand, so she grabbed her question by the tail and stroked it. She stroked that question until it purred, and relinquished its own idea of an answer, mouth open, drooling.

By this time it was winter.

Ten times ten vests for Little Green, knickers for Tamasine. No bulbs no flowers no blooms on trees. All naked. Still naked. In the quiet, her question uncurled:

“What does a bumbling bee prefer? Flower of weed or flower of other seed?”

In an instant, came his fresh green reply:

“Bees have needs.
 Loud flowers: fragrant.
Send sweet signals.

 Bees have needs.

Weeds: dull, stinky.
What of Weeds?
Forget-me-much. Pass-me-by.

Bees leave weeds.”

Silence. Colder somehow, this silence now.

Springtime arrived.

Little Green wore his frown as a sunhat. Tamasine’s question was still held tightly by tail; now it was ready for release.

In the garden. In the garden, sun shone on frost and played the winter away, sun sung the arrival of blooms and bl – ooms, birds and, of course, bees.

Tamasine and Little Green sat together, on the larger green.
And they watched. And watched. And watched. They watched until at last they had something more to see. They followed with their eyes the swirl-whirling pattern of one fat, defying gravity, buzzing fuzz of a bee.

Bee unaware, as it swung in the air.

Heads turn, swift left. Six Legs swoons towards a Trumpet, woozily boozing out of its bowl. Hiccup up and away!

Eyes up, eyes circle, eyes rolling back down: roly-poly round the houses, here’s home for a moment: Weedy one. Weedy won?

All equal. All up in the air.

Tamasine and Little Green, watch again and again as dip for dip, drink for drink, Bumble bowls where stripey belly bids.


A bumble bee’s belly has better sense than those who see: black and white, purple and green, Tamasine and Little Green.

Simple. All equal.

Through the grass, hands reach. Through the grass urrrr hands reach. Through the grass. Still in silence. Softer silence. What more is there to tell?

All equal. Flowers and weeds, the difference between these is not easy to see.

That was once upon
a simple story.

What more is there to tell?

All equal, all naked. You, me, Tamasine and Little Green.


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