Contemplating the space between space this evening and suddenly I remembered…
Here’s a poem written a couple of years ago by our Wwoofer, Ollie Miller towards the end of his stay at Velwell Orchard.
The skittle tongued stream words that trickle down the unsteep gradient constitute the extent of my ear’s delight these caravanned days.
Purple headed foxgloves that talk to the colour of the evening sky.
The space between space, the time between time, eternity within the minute as well as the massive,
The limits at every step along the way, going nowhere fast.
Lighted, moving and coloured hallucinations, not necessarily in that order.
Fluid sparks breezily rocking us every ways.
Every breath of caravan chamomile,
Every sweet wince of stinging nettle flower.
Right and left reoriginated by the early morning scythe.
Giving an idea that is a seed, which melts into chaos the moment before it germinates, looking up to its future chloroplasts, now closer, whose parts move differently under different circumstances.
Right and left reoriginated by water stirring hands.
What is the sound of the song of the big bang?
We’ve just finished that which could never have begun.”