We have walked through memory mansions and turned antiques in the light of the sun examining their principles of creativity, finding the life force in objects, reading tapestry stories carpeting stone walls. We have climbed the staircases of turrets, carved slit windows through rock and surveyed the historic landscape of home, the stone walls running veins through woodland and pasture, those stacked bricks of mountains and fallen towers.
We have strolled gardens of abandoned beauty, the magnificent design of labyrinth and fountain, where Rose planted gardens for the blind to know the shape and movement of fauna there, to walk alone through the ploughed fields home.
We have descended to The Library’s damp walls, oak table, solid chair, candlelight, quill, ink and parchment, sliding wooden ladders to the highest shelves. We have sat with them in the silence of just before dawn running our fingertips down the index pages and spines of heavy books. We have felt the cold rheumatoid hands, the pains of others, and the absolute shades of grey in visions. Lantern light, Oil of Atlas cedar wood warming cherry fires - the comfort of hand sprung armchairs at the hearth, and lifting the sash on Victorian windows, burning manuscripts in summer fires.
We have floated by the mottled silver of mirrors to kitchen’s pantry and all still life, melting the wax off apples with the hunger of an eye, slicing loaves and cold meats for a wooden tray. We have made baskets, for rivers, and gratitude, poured milk from terracotta jugs, and at sunset goblets of wine from simple urns, wooden cups, blackjacks, flagons and measures. We've seen the fleur de ville metal suits of armour’s thirsty arms outstretched, and the flowery cup of love pouring black skies milky white with stars.
We have waded through flooded cellars, drowned in passages of wine, seen Gunpowder plots and walked the tinder box planks of theatres, stepping out alone onto an empty stage. We have played where The Pit bears witness, fruit is thrown, the light shines, and people pray their own way on the dusty long way home.
Through stone walls, burning slats and cobbled streets we have wondered like children at the moving stories in wallpaper, roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes, roots on metal drums, flown a year of nature, the changing man with the changing woman, kerosene, fire jugglers, the sweat of labour, the sweat of love.
We have walked through dewy grass on a Spring morning and listened to the cicada on starry nights, We have danced in rays of the moon, pulled truth from weaves of light, found joy in the colours of the sun, the rain, the footsteps we take to walk our very own rainbow. Hail! Spring!
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