Sunday, 25 January 2009


In tiny flat drawers, in sets of six, poppy seed like grey black grits, a crisply dried rust coloured fern, sand held captive, seedheads frail and falling, chalk crumbled into shapes like teeth, dull green grass seed, oyster shard like a white jewel, a twig that was dreaming of becoming bone. 

And while I would rather stroll among their living beating swaying breaths in the birdsong glory of June, I was happy to gaze at them, lined up in the neat collection, behind the glass, in the dull dim hum of the museum.

Later, I dreamt of casting them all into the breeze.