The scribbler and the ceramicist

The remaking of patterns The familiar question came again. “Where do you get all your ideas?” The answer is unchanged. “From the same place as you.” Yet she was a ceramicist and I a scribbler. Judging by the display on her stall she is every bit as creative and productive as I, if not more … Continue reading The scribbler and the ceramicist

The legionnaire by the lavatory

Roaming in Ribchester “Jim Ridge has got a Roman Wall in his back garden.”  So declared my mate Bob some forty-odd years ago. At the time we were enjoying a pint in a pub in Ribchester on the banks of the River Ribble in Lancashire. I cannot recall how Bob, who was an aerospace fitter, … Continue reading The legionnaire by the lavatory

Speaking for the Unspeakable

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.

Unbalanced Equinox

The man with the missile is masturbating His shadow splats onto the garden He thinks he is making history Heaven knows he's making a mess The equinox will re-stock the garden It won't be easy this year The east reheats the cold war There are sentries in spades at the lych-gate When a man without … Continue reading Unbalanced Equinox