'The costs are relatively modest – but the cost of not taking action is the loss of something priceless and irreplaceable.'
#ProtectOldhouseWarren #WorthSaving #SayNotoCenterParcs #RighttoRoam

This. Full song, half-light.

Under the Humber bridge 🌁

First in garden today. Can’t see them without thinking of this Louise Gluck -

‘crying yes risk joy’

An invitation. A ‘ration of courage’.
Forged like a fable. Imaginatively constructed. Here is workmanship that only such readability suggests. Waited and meticulously prepared for, this (not-so-late) debut and her own ‘time of elevation’. Happy publication day Tanya Shadrick

‘Of belonging not to a place
but to a season’

New talent, fresh as spring sap but patinated with care and autumnal ease:

Waking to this on the first autumnal morning:

'I want to begin again,
move as the creatures
of the air do - birds, moths,
ghosts shimmering
in the empty streets,
the theremin song of the trees
as they shed their inhibitions
against the gold light.'

( Liz Berry )

Anne Carson’s unwritten stillnesses.

This will be a thing of honest beauty, written in conversation with the landscape; earth, stone, wood, water and lark-light.

Morning. Lark-light and lace.

Ripe, East Sussex.

Thin Places, a book of elemental wonders, echoes of sorrow, hymns to nature, crow-black darkness,
incantations and luminous hope has been longlisted for the Wainwright Prize. Congratulations Kerri ní Dochartaigh

I’ve scored an exhibition celebrating the life and work of Tove Jansson, the incredible mind behind Moomin

Tour Walthamstow Wetlands and now listen anywhere, with all proceeds going to the London Wildlife trust via @StudioOrphir 🕊

The Island 1961
ffm.to/theisland1961

Gorgeous work on our Brecon map from Valerie Price and Philip Gross, echoing the work of Jo Sweeting and Louisa Thomsen Brits on our Brighton & Hove map 🗺 V C P Philip Gross jo sweeting Louisa Thomsen Brits 🗺

‘The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one’s own most intimate sensitivity.’

(Anne Truitt, Daybook)

Lured into the garden by the pale-gold moon. The balsamic scent of unfurling black poplar leaves. And a nightingale singing somewhere in the tangle and glow of fading blackthorn.