Letters to garden makers

Dear reader, Like many of us I love walking, leaving behind the insulated world of the car and feeling the strain of pulling this body up gradients and through mud and over streams. I like the sounds, scents and the thoughts on route; which enable me to discover more about myself, my attitudes and my limitations. The sea empties itself on the welsh hills Pushing thoughts low to the ground Ideas like rain Form pools and streams They settle into the season Of winter trees, wood smoke and fire Settling briefly Not still Not dead But moving in cyclical purpose This season brings dank darkness It seeps into the soul I remember things I would like to forget Fragility, vulnerability even anger But there is comfort in the certainty I live today I am as brief upon the face of this landscape As the sudden surges cutting new channels Today I am filled with years and am satisfied Paul

Dear reader, I need reminding of all that is good, all that is beautiful and positive about this place that we live in. There is just so much negativity (much of it justified) relating to what we have done to this planet, that it becomes overwhelming and truly depressing. Light is what lifts my spirit. So here is what lifted me over the last few days. Yes even the greenhouse lifted my spirits. There remains a beauty beyond our ruining. Paul

Dear reader, It has been some time since I posted anything garden related. I have a small garden and I have come to realise that you may get fed up of me going on about it and taking pics of it. But even a small space can be dynamic, constantly changing and surprising me. Perhaps it is short term memory, but I'm sure the garden shifts when I'm not looking. I have been preoccupied with starting a MA and it has required a great deal of effort to keep up with the younger minds. I almost abandoned hope and thought I had made a big mistake, but then I realised that creativity is in our genes and I cannot unsee the things that lift my spirit, and in that respect having a garden is such a blessing. Perhaps the word blessing is an old fashioned word but it does describe how having a garden feels to me - despite the disappointments and losses and mistakes that I make - it continues to surprise. I love trees and love being surrounded by them. My neighbours keep telling me to c

The flood pushed up brushwood to the shore Linear In the direction of flow Black sea apples Swept feminine curves Stranded line of white bleached beach bone Detritus of leaf Not of human manufacture The plastic washed to sea With cleansed memory A cormorant's dive Is watched by the fishes impassive eye Paul.

We are hunkered down With orange lamps and copper tones We are clinging to the night of owls and swept up leaves Picked up on gusts Rain like billowing smoke makes sheep drip silver droplets off blue stained backs Sodden wool like wet carpets not yet woven on the loom The nant gushes and thunders its headlong dash to the sea Here we take stock And wait for answers from the gloom. Paul

Dear reader, There is currently a debate taking place over on thinkingardens.co.uk  regarding the 'New' Perennial Planting 'Elite' and whether us mere mortals with small 'domestic' gardens have been influenced by them or indeed have tried to replicate them. Mixed perennials - calamagrostis bought at Noel's garden I have to take issue with Noel Kingsbury and his attitude to conceptual art in his blogpost - there is far more to the work of Tracey Emin than her bed. There is a need it seems for us humans to create some kind of hierarchy - we find it so so difficult to accommodate the vast range of tastes displayed by our fellow humans. I have to admit that I struggle to find beauty in some gardens, but I try. In much the same way I try to understand and appreciate the art of both amateur and professional artists. But inevitably there will always be elitism because whole industries depend upon our insecurities and need to fit in.

Dear reader, Yes my chillies are growing up into a grape vine There are grapes too I often wonder whether any of you really want to look at pictures of my garden, there is an over saturation of pictures on the Internet. I suppose we post them because we are excited and enthused by the act of making gardens and watching things grow. I have no expertise and claim no authority whatsoever and am a bit befuddled now by so much that is currently on social media. Is a garden a garden because it is deemed so by an 'expert' ? I had this conversation with my walking buddy Charles Hawes. Much like art or poetry or music - what is deemed great or good is very much in the eye and knowledge base of the beholder. Then there is the question of critique as posed by Anne Wareham on thinkingardens.co.uk  . I tend to be very uncritical of the garden world and accept a variety of styles and levels of knowledge but I admit that I do have preferences, I like gardens with a sto

Dear reader, You may have given up on reading this blog - I have felt like I may be speaking to the ether again but nevertheless I continue to write, perhaps because it helps me to understand who I am. I used to panic about losing plants - but this drought has helped me see that nature edits. I may not agree with the editing but there is precious little I can do about it. The drying has killed off the weaker and diseased shrubs, and opened up spaces that I had forgotten about. The lower end of the garden can now be restructured in the autumn which was needed anyway - it just makes my task of clearing easier. I also need to rethink succession in the main block of planting in the middle of the garden - I was late in planting some of the annuals - which have yet to really flower among the perennials. I have been waiting for the rudbeckia to flower with their cheery yellow- and at last they are beginning to open. I have one tiger lily burning brightly - the othe

Dear reader, In bright Albion the flowers of a dead man fade A bright brimstone fly brings a butter yellow dance to its air No fire or fury The blackest of blackbirds sneak in the shadows piping the tune of stolen raspberries This is the life of this soul This gardener This colourless plot This 'working class' poet and artist I shrink from authority and superior wisdom The devil is in detail and bluster and over-confidence I shrink back This dry Albion The land desiccates Trees drop leaves and turn autumnal The river is a stream Patches of shade remain green while the exposed grasses have faded to straw This land which is usually drenched Sodden Soft Has become iron This is a metaphor for me and my drying soul Faith's faltering on the cusp There should be a thirst which I am not feeling There is a lack of water in the well The glory though is in the shade where the blackbirds are Shade retains moisture And deep roots tap