After 22 years suspended between heaven and earth I have a garden.  I see it now peeking through the windows of my mind the step I go down to flatten the grass with the souls of my feat, an achievement of my story, mystery and myth, trees, flowers, leaves laid in noonday dreams, pierced by shells shocked by colors bedded by bamboo borders.  Lighting up the center parked among yellow blossoms the barbecue, visible by satellite, roasts the beknighted loin and my mouth waters the meadow, the green and ancient forest to the east where things begin.  White tigers fly into the sunset where its brief light expires but to be sure it will rise again to allay the apprehension of humans unsure of anything but the need to play taxes and keep occupied until it’s all over the papered cracks of social greedia.  But all is not lost in thoughts of magic, the thorn of the north pricking the lips of the south, fire and water fusing like an overloaded circle it circling the clitosphere speaking its own linguage like the cherries in my morning see real the flakes of corn.

Opening my eyes I see the real, the green wilderness of grass and nettles, docks and brambles and know to manifest this dream I must hie me to the garden center and purchase gloves and a hoe, shears and a rake however reformed, leaving Nadal noisily laboring to manifest his dream.  I have the secateurs left me by my Dad who loved making things and doing things and in whose hands a few sticks of wood would become a cylinder for a garden hose.  They are white-handled with well oiled volute springs, sharp edges to prune and shape and nipple in the bud.  He had always the right tools for whatever job and on reflection so do I: I make do with vision and teleology and know that whatever path it takes to take me there it will.

But don’t we all have this gift, this mind-picture that can fulfil dreams?  Using it of course is another story because so often I hear ‘if only’ and now I take my own medicine: if only I go to Homebase for metal I will make a start on the alchemy for our home base, our little garden of weeds feeding their last on mother earth.  I’ll be back, armed with rotary mower, so shrink, shrivel and cower, little aliens, your summer’s lease has reached its date.  Give way to morning glory and rambling rows of silver bells and cockle shells.