Letters to garden makers

Dear Monty, Yes gardens can be whatever your idea of a garden is. I see them as an opportunity for creativity. I have been looking more closely at the natural 'gardens' of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path and the lush hedgerows. They are truly inspiring. In some places peoples gardens spill over into the hedgerows with a natural blending of natives and introduced plants. Nature does a good job of gardening. What is noticeable though are the areas where farmland grasses border with the paths - and there is much less diversity here. The grasses are green and lush with few native plants. Perhaps this is due to nitrogen ? There is an example of hedgerow and garden blending on the front wall of the cottage we stay at called : 'Nantyblodaubach '- yes John Kingdon that is how it is written ! I did a poor sketch of it - but it is enough info to inform a new fresco. The cottage sits on a quiet lane leading up to Carn Ingli. Moving cattle on Carn Ingl...

Dear Monty, Today I would have been meeting Rosamund in my garden. The Clematis is flowering for her along with the Rhododendron complementing Montana's palest pink - white blooms. Alas Rosamund is not coming and so the wait continues - but will the garden bloom for her ? Her seat in the cloister awaits. Rosamund is from the National Gardens Scheme - I await her visit anxiously - rescheduled for the end of May. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sitting in warm sun - sudden heat, New leaves Birdsong mixes with children's voices - echoing afternoon playtime from the village school on the hill. Crow, hover fly, bumble bees, thrush thrum. The wind not carrying the sound of cars today A gentle day One which could pass for peace. Buds break on the Norwegian maple from what seemed dead branches The miracle of the green fuse. -----------------------------------...

Dear Monty, I am no poet But blood and bones Bag and rattle I sometimes slosh this body over hills And the crow in my carapace picks at its own failings sharp beaked Hills disappear The leaden mist drops heavy in my head Dull day Disasters loom I am a Saul Doomed to failure I see it like a prophecy But then the light bursts through the dread dark and soilish damp Bursting with bud and fruity potential.