Letters to garden makers

Dear Monty, In my mouldy 'greenhouse' the grapes fall and ferment. The smell of yeasts is delicious. Moths fly about and the wasps get drunk on the must. We have just returned from Hay-on-Wye, the half way meeting point to see our daughter and granddaughter. Sophie Elizabeth was glad to see her grumpy grandpa. I love warm autumn days. Hay has a middle class charm  though I am working class to my boots, so I'm not sure why I feel so comfortable there. We had a lovely lunch at  www.granaryathay.co.uk  and then mootled around the bookshops. I picked up a book on impressionism for 50p. Still light at 6pm I sit and reflect upon the day in my own backyard. Marigolds flower with the black eyed Susan forming a larger clump this year. This garden beneath the coal tip is trying hard to return to woodland. I find sycamore, birch, alder, willow, oak, hazel, ash and buckthorn trying to gain a foothold in this tiny garden. If left to its own devices the whole

Dear Monty, 2 'poems' for you. Masks Full moon orb'd silver Through trees Glowed in his cheek Eyes reflected back the garden The universe spun Around his head His hat His hair With one dark eye He drank tea At the lamp lit table No potato eaters here Only crows feathers For her mask His mask begun to crack at the door As the street lights sparked In the night air. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The evolution of man  ( when do we get a backbone ?) What strange creatures we are Calling women sluts And raping children We slithered as fish from the teeming waters The earth was without form and void Until we ruled over all creatures Even ourselves We tamed wolves And made suns to melt flesh We poisoned our food And multiplied over the face of the earth Our greatest creations were money and democracy The rich consuming the poor What heights men

Monty, I realise that had I been alive in the grim days of the witch-hunts, my 'mystic' tendencies may have got me into deep water (literally). The spiritual aspects of life defy our incessant wish to scientifically categorise and rationalise every experience. Demonising and witch-hunts continue to this day. The things that make me feel alive are not 'evidenced based '. Today I felt alive by changing the colour of a picture frame. I knew it wasn't right, it was a gut thing, a response to the autumn light in the thinking room. What makes me feel alive is the garden slipping into Autumn. It has tipped past primping. The large conifer is soon to be cut down, and I have some anxiety about the hole it will make in this small garden, but at the same time I know it will regrow and become cloistered again. Although most people know me as a nurse, I am an artist - that is what I am. I wear the uniform and struggle to do my best, but it is not th

Dear Monty, I am sitting in my coal tip cloister in the warm morning sun, like an old man sitting in a French, Italian or Spanish square simply absorbing the light the sights and the sounds whilst sipping coffee. This morning on my walk with dog I realised that many of the wild plants flowering now are just as colourful and intense as some of our introduced weeds from other countries. There was a plant with particularly lovely lemon yellow spikes of small daisy-like flowers yet to be identified which I intend to collect seeds from and grow in the garden bringing colour at this late end of the floriferous season. Connections with our natural environment are so important for our soul life. Without making connections we are in danger of becoming even more blind to our own self destruction. I first became aware of making the connection with my dad in the small terraced garden of our humble home in Swansea. In those days insect life seemed more abundant, house sparrows were commo

Dear Monty, I had a wonderful time at the Orchid Festival organised by www.orchidstudygroup.org.uk  at the www.gardenofwales.org.uk  National Botanic Garden of Wales this weekend. I strolled through the walled garden in scented butterflied solitude and watched a red kite fly low over the walls and Sir Norman Foster's glasshouse. The garden slowly woke up to the sound of birds and conversation. I admired the late summer wild flower oval in front of Principality House, and the ruby chard growing in the vegetable borders. Most of all I enjoyed making connections with those who have the same love of the natural world. It is truly a privilege to be part of this annual event. I agonised over my paintings again, I do this every time I put them on public display, it is a bit like exposing yourself - will people think I am a fraud, a failed artist etc etc. I need not have fretted. Vanity. A friend there said ' This generation is all about "me" ,