The Hawthorn Hedge

pixie black and white

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 new.

(You never forget that view.)

When I was very young, nature engaged in my make-believe games in complete and total co-operation. In my Grandmother’s garden,  every day brought a new discovery, stored in my memory box of sights, sounds, tastes, touch and smell, emotions almost beyond a language of descriptive adjectives. Someone said that birds, and animals perceive the world in a different way to humans, this is possibly true, up to a point. But what if, as adults, the ability to listen with our senses diminished along with our outgrown childish toys. The world is more than it seems, it speaks the language of the heart that we are all connected to. I trust my heart to engage with nature in total and complete gratitude.

Pencil Sketch

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 flowers in plastic buckets present no joy, no comfort.

Lets be done with this lifeless place, stay away Mum, there is no need to come here again. I know you hear me, I know you agree. You are in my heart. Your memory more alive than this bleakest of places could ever be.

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