While sitting in the gazebo in Gill’s garden, I saw a little bird in the tree. But on closer inspection, it was simply a leaf. All is not what it appears to be, but one way or another, real or imagined, Gill was here, through me.
Flower beds, climbing beans, cabbages, crisp and clean, the narrow ditch where nettles sting. Snail tracks glisten like silver threads on the pile of stones at the garden end. On hands and knees I hold my breath, gaze through the gap in the hawthorn hedge, to the meadow, where white horses tread. And everywhere I look, is … More The Hawthorn Hedge
I sit in the Garden of Remembrance, on a damp wooden bench. It is 10.30am. The church bell rings three times. I am here to talk to you, if you would come, one more time, just for today, to this cold, shaded side of the church where tired ground, patch-worked grass, wind weathered yew trees, and rain sodden … More Pencil Sketch