The mindscape creates itself in its own fashion, I imagine journeys while staying still. A hut in the forest, an old coppice. Mossy stumps & the ancient men of the world, the warriors of bracken. Last night the moonscape was the shadowy hills, all afternoon it has been Autumn. The slow glowing of October, of oak & rowan & hazel, the yellowing leaves that fall & feed the tree, the tree of life.
They settle down into themselves, into the dead of Winter. I dream of taking for my pillow some tiny flowers, bluebells, anemone, in their own way as enormous as stars. To walk through the landscape of my own journey, to embrace it all with the belly & heart. & so for the same reason I remain here, carefully tending this small fire, strangely content with birch twigs for kindling, chestnut offcuts.