I seem to be turning into my parents as each day gets older. I’ve cultivated my mother’s love for cooking and gardening, my dad’s passion for puns, and now I’m turning into my grandfather, with his love for writing limericks. Thought this up as I walked into town to pick a sister up from the chocolate shop. Apologies that it’s a little clumsy. Ahem.
In the dark, cold months, she scribbled her dreams
Upon stacks and stacks of white paper reams
Of crisp august skies
And warm rhubarb pies
In winter, how far away summer seems.
Alice in Wonderland by Arthur Rackham
by
(via olkwa)
(Source: fauxford, via somepeoplegoqua)
