Pete Hartley: sometime dramaturg, perennial scribbler
I named him BalwinBecause it means ‘bold friend’He’s much bolder than IBut nowhere near as bald.Hopping into her potting shedWithout asking permissionStealing treatsAsking for favoursFistfuls of fatAtrophied mealsSwell his cropBetween badges of greyNot normally noted on a black-breasted bird. That’s how we know it is himIt’s his i.d.That’s meSays heUnder our apple treeNear to her … Continue reading Baldwin the Bold
Loud voices, false promises, afterlife in the undergrowth.
The garden has gained a new old gargoyle. We wonder what he's thinking.
Flying babies and fledging thoughts.
Absent aerial fast friends, temporarily resident tits, and hedgehogs on film and on paper.
Live and let hibernate.
We’re giving you all a piece of our garden.
Recycling to recycle.
The garden speaks continuously, day and night. It has spoken since long before it was enclosed ninety years ago, and it will never stop unless it becomes concreted ground. Even then it will speak again; just give it time. It has always been heard, we hear it all every day and read it continuously, but its messages are not conveyed. They remain within us.
Autumn arrived late this year just in time for winter and for the leaving.
uneasywords 