From the twigs and branches drip the first spring rain, pattering like an incessant thought yet to germinate.
The Cosmic Hedgerow started as a way of collecting all the little bits of nonsense folklore that I liked to write under the protective umbrella of a Bush at the side of the road. It wasn't until I was asked to exhibit some pieces in the upstairs room of a pub last year that I started to think about how the Bush felt about all this.
Now the hedgerow is my pet project, the little magical England of my childhood somewhere between Brian Jacques Redwall, Wind in the Willows told by Alan Garner, and a really good episode of Time Team.
Below are some of the scraps in the lead up to the birth of Iseult by mother Moon.
The storm was about to break, so mouse hurriedly split the willow whittle to light for the seance. Old mother mouse would be waiting on the other side he knew, baiting the cosmic veil with her sharp tongue and cunning whiskers.
Posted on Twitter September 13th 2022
The cap cutting ceremony was an ancient tradition, and it's magic was lost on most, but not her. She broke a soft smile as the spores gently kissed her face and tongue as a gentle mist.
Posted on Twitter September 15th 2022
The sword had been caught up in her branches for years, no-one could remember the original owner: it belonged to her neat green fingers. If any strayed from the path, or cut too much from the lings, they might wake with the sword quivering over their heart.
Posted on Twitter October 1st 2022
Now I'm sheltering under the branches of the Chestnut tree at the end of the row, listening to the rain and wind, reading from Methusula's red book of the hedge. I've started the story with Iseult the first, but this history is muddled with bits of whatever I feel like at the time. This feels like the right way.