Thursday, 29 September 2011
Monday, 26 September 2011
At least we have not had another fatality.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Friday, 9 September 2011
Monday, 5 September 2011
On digging new ground for potatoes I found four tide smooth stones.
“Tom brought them here,” his daughter said, “To edge beds.”
Our stones fill corners, sit on logs, fill old bowls -
slate slabs from Luing inset with cubes of shining pyrites,
rock crystal from Corfu, 1969. still exotic,
gathered from a quarry on our honeymoon,
pebbles from Menorca when the octopus grabbed my ankle
on the snorkelling beach and I yelped with alarm,
white quartz from a crag near Goats Water carried down
the old track to Little Arrow through Bannishead,
heavy haematite looking like half an enormous brain
lugged from Newgale in a backpack, now a doorstop,
small stone eggs harvested from the shore at Roanhead
whilst Jethro and Willow excavated mountains of sand,
pink Ionan granite from the beach opposite Eilean Annraidh
where we stood and stared north at Western Mull and Staffa,
slag from the bloomery by the lake near Napping Tree
where we would swim and cook causages on a wood fire.
When my father died I took a dark brown stone from Bardsea Beach
and rolled it in my pocket like a Rosary Bead, a comfort.
All these places, memories and events are now collected in our garden,
waiting in the shadows to be seen and surprise me.
Which brings me to plums - they have stones!