Aside the brook
\nBeneath the trees
\nThis is the haunt
\nOf the dreaming bees<\/i><\/p>\n
You sent this rhyme to me in a velvet envelope but addressed it to a David Hathaway who lives in the hills far from here. He does not care for The Poetry of Empire.<\/p>\n
Your writings should have never left the jagged shores<\/p>\n
I reply to you enclosing an uncertain recipe<\/p>\n
As the first fleet docked
\nits company mutinied
\nand burnt the ships flags <\/i><\/p>\n
The resulting ash covered
\nmy home entirely
\nas I cooked my evening meal <\/i><\/p>\n
This was to my advantage
\nas I slept well
\nand dreamt only of mutinies<\/i><\/p>\n
I will send this to you in my grasshopper diary
\nwhich is finely bound<\/p>\n
Please do not open it until you have sent me
\na concordance of your dreams
\nas I know you to be a twin
\nand I seek the other<\/p>\n
I wait a year and receive only
\na children\u2019s rhyme
\nfrom you<\/p>\n
unfinished<\/p>\n
Here come the baa lambs
\nHere come the sheep <\/i><\/p>\n
(You ask your twin to complete it but he declines)<\/p>\n
Here comes the night owl
\nBringing you your sleep <\/i><\/p>\n
I ask of the clergy of your immediate parish<\/p>\n
The church was dedicated to St Michael and is a large stone building of Norman origin partly rough cast and covered with Horsham stone<\/i><\/p>\n
You list the vicars<\/p>\n
James Keigwin instituted on the 12th<\/sup> of July 1762, died in February 1805<\/i><\/p>\n George Heath DD, Canon of Windsor, instituted in 1805<\/i><\/p>\n John F Doveton instituted May the 24th<\/sup> 1815 George Robert Kensit instituted February 18th<\/sup> 1835 <\/i><\/p>\n But halt at four. I ask you of recent members of this office. You note there are no others except<\/p>\n James I feel that you are being musical with my feelings and request that you send all future correspondence to the hill farm of David Hathaway.<\/p>\n We do not correspond for ten years until you contact me directly asking me to complete your rhyme. You describe yourself as wearing a green velvet dress of medieval design that has been injured by the requests for envelopes.<\/p>\n You sit on a stool of orange silk which hides your needlework beneath<\/p>\n You have created a tapestry and interwoven in satin thread is the children\u2019s rhyme you request I finish<\/p>\n Here come the baa lambs I note that I completed this rhyme many years previously and forwarded it to you in a lead box with a lock of my hair that you might use it in your generous enterprise.<\/p>\n You supposed the box to be empty and buried it with your favourite hound in the presence of the current incumbent. This was over five years ago.<\/p>\n The final resting place of the beast is now unknown as is the vicars name<\/p>\n We have both forgotten these years and you have abandoned your tapestry<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A Golden Braid\u00a0 <\/b><\/p>\n I am currently building a fence between two tracks, one redundant using the finest wood. Occasionally a woman with a golden braid visits me and sells me her hair which I use to bind the fences together when the geography becomes difficult.<\/p>\n I speak to her of your letters and rhymes, she has no answers only a rage of golden hair.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Stories From the Grasslands <\/b><\/p>\n She sat on the wall that hid the farm from the lane waiting for her flower-man to arrive. But on that day he did not travel and remained in his orchard counting his apples.<\/i><\/p>\n \u201c<\/i> Please bring the flowers from the grasslands<\/i>\u201d<\/i> she said quietly to a passing hawk. But no-one came and slowly the girl on the wall withered and upon her death she changed into a mass of celandine.<\/i><\/p>\n Which was her birth name<\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Nyesse <\/b><\/p>\n Your commentaries are silken<\/p>\n (this is your reply)<\/p>\n (you do not sign your letter)<\/p>\n I recognise your ink<\/p>\n which has translucent qualities<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Watery Eyes of the Nyesse\u00a0 <\/b><\/p>\n The Lady Martha was dull in spirit. She sat one morning in her gilded chair on a hill a few miles distant from Richmond and began feeding her parakeets. She expected conversation but found none.<\/p>\n Consumed with passion, she built a camera obscura on this hill and awaited his presence on the lit-table<\/p>\n I am leaving the grasslands so that you may see me once more. I am rapid of years but you will recognise my features. Touch the table of light for my association <\/i><\/p>\n The Lady Martha awaited his image, but his travel produced no likeness. She began to despair and her tears dropped onto the lit-table.<\/p>\n I notice your tears, do not weep for I am in your circle of light\u00a0 <\/i><\/p>\n The Lady Martha looked again into the circle of light but all that she saw were the grasslands both yellow and green.<\/p>\n Climb beloved onto the lit-table, lay on your back and look into the light, I am here and you will see me<\/i><\/p>\n The Lady Martha climbed onto the wood smooth table and stared into the light-mirrors. At first she witnessed nothing and heard only children\u2019s rhymes.<\/p>\n Here come the baa lambs Here comes the night owl She imagined herself walking through the grasslands towards the hill farm of David Hathaway. She stopped occasionally and picked the yellow flowers which were frequent. Soon the pockets of her robe were full and she began to sink into the heavy grasses.<\/p>\n Do not try for breath as there is no air at this level. Remove the flowers and make your bed and I will join you. Although distant we have never been apart. <\/i><\/p>\n The Lady Martha lay on her bed of celandine and looked skyward above the grasses. She could not breathe but was of no distress. Within the hour she felt that she was no longer alone.<\/p>\n She turned her head, her twin (now quite aged) was lying next to her. He had a beard of golden hair which hid his sunken cheeks. His skull, lightly covered was a mass of abrasions.<\/p>\n The Lady Martha lifted her hand and touched the violence of his skin. As she did so the blood of her twin ran slowly onto the yellow flowers.<\/p>\n She closed her eyes again and when her vision returned she was no longer with her twin in the grasses. She was in an orchard (or she supposed it to be so) and hanging from a tree. He robe had gone but she was not naked.<\/p>\n We were born as twins many years apart. Life was dear to you where mine was harsh. Do not seek your human characteristics for although there you will not see them. We are now co-joined as we were in our mothers womb. We will not fall or be harvested as no-one enters this grove. The seasons are constant, do not fear.<\/i><\/p>\n The Lady Martha opened her eyes, there was no reflection coming from the light-mirrors. The circular table was dark and damp. She climbed down and left the tiny building on the hill and returned to her gilded chair where she began her tapestry once more weaving a children\u2019s rhyme.<\/p>\n The woman with the golden hair She cut another section from her green velvet dress and constructed an envelope and enclosed the rhyme which she sent to her twin for completion.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Aside the brook Beneath the trees This is the haunt Of the dreaming bees You sent this rhyme to me in a velvet envelope but addressed it to a David Hathaway who lives in the hills far from here. He does not care for The Poetry of Empire. Your writings should have never left the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/778"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=778"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/778\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=778"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=778"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=778"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nGeorge
\nJohn
\n& George <\/i><\/p>\n
\nHere come the sheep <\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i><\/p>\n
\nHere come the sheep <\/i><\/p>\n
\nBringing you your sleep<\/i><\/p>\n
\nvisited the grasslands
\nbut was never there <\/i><\/p>\n