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| Charleston Poppy |
This garden [Roger Fry wrote] is still for me the
imagined
background for almost any
garden scene that I read of in books,
The
serpent still bends down to Eve from the fork of a peculiarly
withered and soot begrimed old apple tree
which stuck out of
the lawn. And various
other scenes of seduction seem to me to have taken place within its modest
suburban precincts. But It
was also the
scene of two great emotional experiences, my first
passion and my first great disillusion. My
first passion was for
a bushy plant of
large red oriental poppies which by some
blessed chance was actually within the limits of the square yard
of bed which had been allotted to me as my
private and particular garden. The
plants I bought and glued into the ground
with mud, made with a watering pot and garden mould --
seeds which I sowed never came up to my
expectations, generally in fact refused
to grow at all but the poppies were always
better than my wildest dreams. Their red was always redder
than any thing I could imagine when I looked
away from them.
Roger Fry (16)
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