Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Ode to "Rosemary & Thyme"

At eight o’clock – this shot: profusion of fat pink
and yellow blossoms from whose bursting moment –
just this side of rot – drop seven heavy floating petals –
rife with roundness, ripeness: and the entrée
to such carefully selected dreams of English country
life – such graceful fantasies of early June – on such
a rare collective flawless blooming afternoon –
that all of England might be plausibly presumed

a picnic full of peonies for Beatrix Potter and her bunny
rabbits: neither damp nor gray: one picture perfect
summer day evolving as the pastel backdrop for
a requisitely plotted play, in which someone disposable
gets put away: furthering the murder mystery enough –
although no more than slightly – to dismay its
viewers lightly, now and then – avec frissons, soupçons
distractions from the swoony redolence of roaming

through the dahlias with felicitous Felicity (her surname:
Kendall) and the grand expansiveness of Pam
(Ms. Ferris) gardening on terraces or wooded glens or
tulip-ed pathways – a bequest of all the best of Britain’s
southern land – accompanied by the Baroquely
reconfigured music of the Messrs. Simon and Garfunkel –
as if they’d bunked with Buxtehude more than 1960s’
folk: all in all a gentle stroke against, and poking out of,

harshness for whose lush soft qualities I willingly
suspend my (never solid) disbelief. Ms. Kendall and
Ms. Ferris are so staggeringly good they render sweet
relief each time they blink or sigh or swagger – fleet
dagger of a glance: the willing tender heart is lanced.
There is a world like this bedecked and lovely
England, all unbruised and gay and bright. I visit it,
at eight o’clock, on Channel 21, each Tuesday night.

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