Summer Makes A Silence After Spring.

For The Last 40 Years Of My Life I Have Broken My Back, My Fingernails, And Sometimes My Heart, In The Practical Pursuit Of My Favourite Occupation.

There Is Always Something Else To Do. A Gardener Should Have Nine Times As Many Lives As A Cat.

Click, Clack, Click, Clack, Went Their Conversation, Like So Many Knitting-needles, Purl, Plain, Purl, Plain, Achieving A Complex Pattern Of References, Cross-references, Christian Names, Nicknames, And Fleeting Allusions.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.

Everywhere Bees Go Racing With The Hours, / For Every Bee Becomes A Drunken Lover, / Standing Upon His Head To Sup The Flowers.