Letters to garden makers

Dear Monty, The garden has become a skid rink - a slippery surface of mud - much like many other gardens. Nature does her thing beyond our control. Rain, mud but no blood. Nothing lost Peace of mind is still intact Though battled and bruised And sometimes mistaken Wrong in fact. I bring to mind storms calmed by a voice But storms they are and were And ever shall be. Contrast One day of winter Frozen in a moment Sharp White A friend suggests capturing its light in a painting. With this thought at this very moment of writing The sun breaks through the clouds Like an answer That's right it says Reverberating inwardly Reverie? Like Monet in his garden. What does it matter if the earth was created in 6 days or 6 billion years ? What is a year ? What is time ? Yet another thing we try to pin down To quantify In order to be distracted from being We love counting. God is not a counter Not bounded by borders Not a respecter of persons. The trees froz...

Dear Monty, We walked the wild wood in Penllergare Victorian estate of Dillwyn-Llewelyn River reflections Mud and flood Light and parkland trees Artifice. Cliffs - steps - cuts Lost with dog Over brooks Water over wellingtons.   The carriage walk into the sun The distant sound like sea The cars to Carmarthen. Paul.

Dear Monty, I have a lot of Ivy in my garden, it trails the ground in the borders and scrambles up the nearest available upright, which is its wont. I have just read an article shared by The James Golden on garden movement. Movement not in terms of the wind making itself visible - but in the way a garden changes and plants move through the soil and begin to colonize. A garden only exists in the mind of its creator in the sense that it is the mind that takes the information relayed through the eyes and edits what it sees. Perhaps I see an imbalance or an over dominance of a plant or shrub or tree which needs cutting back to maintain a state of harmony. What I have learnt from the likes of James, Anne Wareham and Noel Kingsbury is that this being in tune with change is part of the excitement of garden making. Allowing dominance can sometimes be risky, but it is good to see what the plants themselves want to do. The sad downside to the fact that gardens exist in the minds ...

Dear Monty, Contempt is such a ubiquitous attitude in our society today. I suffer from it myself. I noticed a neighbour throw rubbish onto the street outside the boundary of his front garden - and I admit I had feelings of dismay and a sense of grudging acceptance that this contemporary world is one of a disregard toward any environment other than the one we 'own'. Why is there no respect for beauty and cleanliness ? Why do we no longer see litter as an eyesore ? Of course I am virtue signalling ; but isn't having a pleasant environment a virtue worth signalling ? This lack of valuing the visual beauty of our environment seems to be a particular problem in South Wales perhaps because of a post industrial attitude to a landscape scarred by heavy industry. But that cannot be the whole story - because I remember neighbours cleaning and washing the steps up to their houses and keeping the pavements clean. Perhaps we expect others to do this for us these days ? The a...

Dear Monty, The river mixes red soil like blood with the clear waters filtered in the depths of limestone. A furious cauldron Thundering under the wooden footbridge. It pounds my ears And thunders in my chest Awakening my slumbering soul. It shouts RAGE ! It hisses DANGER ! How quickly the mind reverts to fear How fast I forget its vast and infinite origin. Resting in the shelter of a porch Conversation reminds me of the potent curse Of knowing both good and ill in the land of the living. Fear ties me up Binding my mind Keeping thoughts small In the confines of Babylon's walls. Whilst drinking coffee I notice seven stars in the crack of the paving beneath my feet I see that LIFE courses like a river through my veins A LIFE without restrictions. Paul

Dear Monty, The dog rests after his walk His paws washed Still smell earthy. He curls foetal Feet under his nose Smelling the earth he came from. It brings a kind of comfort A memory of the walk In the garden of a one-time Eden. Birches white barked and purple topped Bright sun between the clouds Which brought so much rain. He dreams of rabbits and squirrels and chasing sticks He drifts into deep sleep Limbs relax. He twitches and quietly barks As an orchestra plays mellow music Plucked mysteriously from the air. When I smell the earth It smells of God It is where I belong. I am the elements The rain The river The light made manifest. My flesh is a hindrance And all that men reach for To make themselves holy. Why do we forget where we came from? Why is humility so hard to grasp While in the land of the living ? I am alive when I smell the earth Out of death comes life Rich and full of potential. Na...

Dear Monty, As far as I can tell - there was no celebration of the birth of Christ (Messiah) by the early church. This celebration was created in order to coincide with pagan festivals and has now become a sanitised version of who this Christ was. He was born into dangerous times of occupation - of political unrest in the Middle East. A time of expectation, of acts of terror and of dumbing down God. There were factions that were trying to undermine the rule of Rome and there were the local Temple leaders who were actively suppressing revolt. This Christ didn't take sides in this man made struggle. Instead he said that we were all at fault, all corrupt, all in need of something new. There was no difference between the religious and the irreligious - all had missed the point and could not and indeed still cannot solve such issues by political or moral means. Here we are still trying to solve these issues - still applying the same formula - wielding the sword a...