LOVE’S LANDSCAPES How to phrase it? Neither time nor space, exactly; let’s say our habitat. Take childhood. The way a door opens through a wall into the garden where the track leads to a pond, flat mirror at the centre, and the day’s ephemera - bracken, clouds, branches, seeds – are gathered in and taken down. You could lean over and gaze for hours into the depths. Or recall the Old Custom House at Wells and stand at the upstairs window to watch the marsh tide swell, lifting the stranded yachts off the mud flats, their geometric sails tranquil between sparring gulls – then turn round to see our sparse white room catching the intermittent flash and gleam, as the water glistens and glides. Reflections of reflections of reflections: enclave for reverie. Or take the winter room where now we sit: the red blinds down, turquoise plate, stone Buddha, the haphazard pile of half-read books – how these things draw us in, calm and concentrate. Here time suspends its reckless flight. We move between adagio and interlude; the tempo slow, intimate. In the grate the wood blazes against the burning rings of soot. The steady flames flutter into the infinite.18_peregrination.html
 
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