11 Jul


I remember as a child, I used to sit in the porch – close the door behind me to the middle-room and just be – in that space that smelled of slate, beeswax and snail mucus (I didn’t know if it was that, but I imagined that the silvery trails had a smell).  Late afternoons seemed always to pour orange light through the glass panels of the door.  Nearly always, this acted as my Narnia – opening out into a secret garden – like Ferngully – there were no white witches, no Aslan, no moth-balls or snow.

Cracking open the pod of a fresh bud on a tendril poking through between the paving- slabs, it oozed jellied liquid on to my hands.  Nature’s invisible ink.  Etched carefully – words and flowers – petals and bumble bees.  Vanishing as fast as the sun could bake us.  It didn’t matter, though.  I…

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