Yesterday, Marianne and I went to Laurel Hill Cemetery, a mighty Victorian necropolis ("Or --" as the guide on the Glasgow bus tour used to say in his quite wonderful Scottish burr, before this estimable gent was replaced by a perfectly inadequate tape --"City . . . of the Dead!") to take photos of gravestones for a project that will come to fruition next year, in time for Halloween. And look what we found! The grave of Rocky Balboa's wife! Cunningly placed so as to look as if it were in a plebian urban graveyard, rather than one of the jewels of its kind.
What a fabulous world this is!
And as always . . .
The Poem du Jour has been updated. This time with the abbreviated version of Mr. Toad's imaginary garden.