This old armchair sits in a shed. It rocks quietly, maybe, when the heavy door is shut.

I took photos when I went back. I was careful not to fall in the Well. There were timbers over the top and it might not be that safe.
Going back.

The chair was heavy. With dust. With someone still there.

There is a wood stove in the corner, drums and white buckets. Gas bottles, they're everywhere.
Stories like lead. They sink.
They take you deep

​There are footprints in the dust

​hello to
​and the first few words
and beginnings

sitting here
with a head of slowly
ideas forming

and these flowers
picked from somewhere
long ago

in the clay pot
made with Ralph
who inspired all

and is still feeding us
​