| Nov ’04 |
| 5 |
| 5:01 pm |
Under construction
I am not sure how this is going to work yet. I think this article will contain a series of links to scanned in PDF files for you to download.
Materials
| Nov ’04 |
| 5 |
| 5:03 pm |
A list of who owns what.
Petra, you can write an article with the same title. When you have, I will delete this one!
The London Plane: My Favourite Tree – Meditation by Anna
Our tree is perhaps missing from most tree lore because no one can agree on its origin. It is said to be a hybrid: between Plantanus Orientalis (Easter Med.) and Plantanus Occidentalis (America via Spain). The trouble with that theory is that hybrid trees can’t normally produce fertile seeds and, as any London gal knows, the London Plane is highly fertile and a bit saucy!
(more…)
Untitled – Poem by Lorraine
I am not a clean stone
Sniff me, smell moss
and earth and London’s dirt
Listen, if you can
I lay in the ground
Disturbed not at all
By the movement of roots
in the humming green life
of the Great North Wood
They twined around me
in comfortable embrace
I lay in the ground
Unearthed, kicked around
As Victoria’s reign brought
houses, factories and soot
Shards broke away
Small battle scars
From the accellerating age
If a stone could hear
The sound came like rain
Incessant pattering,
hissing, then shattering,
Near enough to feel warmth
dreams burst into flames
while the glass palace burned
Pushed aside to an alley
as foundations took shape
Homes hurriedly sprang
Dressed up in red brick
jarring in their newness
Their hue not so different
From my own ruddy core
I will still be here
chipped yet surviving
when all this is gone
as mortar erodes
as the weeds spring up
to be followed by trees
as the Wood regrows once more
Lorraine Mac
Bardic Time – Poem by Daniel
Much of honour I have learned
Steeped in the ways of yore but modern
I have walked the forests of my mind
Dabbled in the arts of alchemy
Made mistakes, retreats and forward movements
Along the thread of fate
I have learned a little patience
Peace, now, is a word which speaks more often
As I come upon the grove of my guides,
Where in ending, I begin.
Daniel Mac
Pansy Neilson’s Magnificent – Poem by Anna
This is not the leper house,
it’s not here that lesions creep
through a bright red haze.
That’s on the other side –
where they’ve put builders’ huts
over the football pitch
What is this haze – smudging out
from the blotch to form a margin?
It’s red as in heart not iron
or blood, a red too Victorian
to stand in this place,
too red for the likes of us
Anna Robinson
