I'm not sure but I think I was thinking of John. Of accepting simplicity again in people. Of a natural charm. Of being open. Of having respect for other people again. Allowing a very simple viewpoint credence. Accepting each to its own standards. Thatb is why I think I was thinking about John. I suppose in part the season has come around for thinking about John. There is something easy about spring and summer and autumn that is also found in the memory here. It is not there in the winter, in the winter it is closed and difficult. Winter is not a time for thinking about John and so I suppose now winter must have ended. Those are all things most easily found in the memory of John. It is as simple as that.
One moment the sun is shining and the next the sky is white with hailstones. Alan came around just to fill some time so I had another cup of coffee and filled some time for him, then went out. That was really enough.
Half seen a fragile daffodil hangs on the side of a hedge. Why is it always windy here. There are double daffodils here. just a few. Incongruous and unwelcome but still here. For all that still here. Parking the car by this which could one day be lawn. The wheels will leave sad marks of destruction. Even the puddle splashed wheels will leave heavy marks of destruction. Always the wind here is blowing. A box tree has grown into a bush. Hanging heavy arms down from a short coiled trunk. The flowers add to the weight as though of perfume. The rounded shape is very satisfying somehow. Young plants behind it will one day add to the memory. An old tree hangs over as though it wanted to become an apple tree, Once there was a path beneath all this mud. Now there is just mud to deter the passage. That's how it was once. That's how it will be again but for now it is very beautiful. Perhaps it will be sold to a lady who breeds Yorkshire Terriers. Somehow that would be fitting. That would somehow work in a strange way. These small spaces would be well suited to small dogs somehow. Perhaps that is how it will go from here. That is just one of the ways it will change.
Spring arrives here very green. The Primroses are very pale except where they are pink or very bright. They sprout with enthusiasm from the hedges into the space where the mud once was. Down the track caught between the hedges the shining brown mud collects like coffee beans roasting. Along the edges the grass pushes through the mud. In the centre the mud sucks the grass blades back into the earth. The soft brown earth. Nothing here is hard. Even the stone has mellowed. The primrose leaves with the texture of the mud. Superficial Celandines encrust the surface, brushing easily aside. The Ivy loses so easily the shades of winter as the spring Arums spring. Marks of travellers haunt this place for all to see. There are marks here for all to see who have eyes to see it. This place changes so fast it is inviolate. Nothing here that moves but that it is stationary. Footsteps in place or out of place do not disturb any tranquility. There organised grasses so strongly arranged as wild onions. Nothing of this is new. Nothing of this is old. This is the place for footfalls to fall. Accidental treading is all that ever occurs here. Long since the deliberate footsteps haunted a place of quiet ghosts. Movement lies stretched put through the grass. Always present, usually sleeping. Here she lies today again. Celandines here are what they are again. Stationary, fixed, permanent. Transient. Made of glass and cling film. Evanescent performance like the sound of crumpling tin foil. The hedges grow up and round to enfold the pathway. To retain the growth. To shield this place from without. Without waiting. Without watching. Without expectations it comes to be here. Finally a slipped foot is wetted as it should be. Pliant branches of Sycamore easy the grateful hands leaning round the disturbed puddles. Remains here. The imprint of a shoew remains here. The loving mud. The loving mud makes an impression. The mud remains here.
So the wind blows. The roof is not mine and will have to be replaced again one day. The roof is made entirely of corrugated tin sheeting. It is as it should be here. But still it will have to be replaced. You can't keep yorkies under a tin roof, especially in Cornwall which is really only where it would even be possible. So the wind blows. The mud is not affected by its passage. The cold frames sit stoically in defiance of the elements almost as though they had a choice and had rejected it. On the way I saw a polythene tunnel thatb had lost its will to resist. It had given up the endless battle. So the wind blows.
The plastic blows. The wind blows. The mud is stationary except for the passing footprint by accident. The supple branches protect it all and somehow capture and hold it lovingly. The Celandines grow most profusely where they look most content. They have much shallower roots than my own. A single probing finger can lift them from their moist bed. Even a probing trowel will not reach the homes of those found here. The leaves are different too. They marble more decisively. They grow in neater clumps. They pattern the ground more strongly. In Tehidy Woods they often have dark marks in the centre of the leaves. Here there are none. Silver green dapples the apple green blades as wave upon wave betray the woodland smile.