Ghosts and winter gardens
The garden wakes slowly. It looks good - has looked good throughout the winter. The balance seems right- the balance of evergreen to copper, brown and soft green.
My trip to heaven
Head on a pillow
Of soft green.
With Tudor England being in the minds of those who watch the BBC - with gardens of yews and barber poles - this coal tip garden could be Tudor - could be because my mind links now with childhood visits to Stratford on Avon - 'Comedy of Errors' and 'HenryV' - the wooden house of Shakespeare's birth and the forever beautiful Judi Dench.
Was the planting of poles in my garden a subconscious hark back to Tudor times ? No- it was just a device to draw the eye - now as it was then. There is nothing new under the sun.
Life expectancy in Tudor times was an average of 35 years. At 54 I would be an old man. The dusty oak interior the smell of wood and wood smoke still calls up a hidden memory of lives lived richer but harder.
We fold our clothes at the end of the day
We fold up our lives in the woven fibres
We wear out shoes and elbows on pullovers
And we leave them behind like ghosts of ourselves
Here is the museum of my life
My socks tucked into a ball
My trousers folded on the chair
The books read
The paintings bought and made
The watch that marked the time that wore out both clothes and the body within them
Here is my life in words
A fragment of me.