Oh, my gosh, Auguste.
They don't know yet.
I haven't found the
moment to tell them.
They don't know yet.
I haven't found the
moment to tell them.
I know.
But they
aren't here
now.
I suppose we'd
better get back.
Hercule and his
friend must be
concerned.
Oh.
I doubt it.
i Derek
iii, iv, v Ivan Terestchenko
Oh my Gosh Auguste ! :-)
ReplyDeleteYour Springtime postings, beginning with amazing luminosity and refulgence in Paris, are wholly to blame for this narrative, and I expect you shall hear more of this in the coming days. In enchanted Marladas the flower beds were spectacular, alluring enough after the long rains, but the burst of acacia, Ivan, went over the top in more ways than one, a complimentary shower on the whole spectacle, floating petals in the breeze of subtropical Condrieu ~ the viognier grape, melon-y and viscous, dulcet in suspension of its benison ~ scattered approbation and contentment o'er the unsuspecting inmates of its open shade. That's some piece of land you got out there. :)
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