This one has a stone wall that you saw driving north at sunrise on your last day at work. You thought, “I’ll write a poem about that”, but by sunset it was lockdown again and you went home to stay home. No poem. This one has a glimpse you caught of your face reflected in a sunlit window and your freckles surprised even you, as though the last time you’d seen yourself you were pale and now time and slowness had put their pigment on you. You began – a sonnet, if I recall correct – but never finished, the iambs too regular, life in too much quiet disarray. This one has ivy winding around it, and this one got lost taking out the compost. These ones were bundled together in your bed when you fell asleep, and this one lies tangled in your youngest son’s cot. Over there’s an epic that was never thought and under the garden path is a song. “Remember us?” they cry, as you hang laundry to dry and somewhere, yes somewhere, you’re sure that you do. When it works, when the sounds and pictures and words combine to take shape on a page, on a screen, on a tongue, you will look up, and find the stone wall has become a city, the compost heap an orchard, vast, your children resting beneath the boughs. You will stand on the bedrock of your unwritten thoughts, teeming with miles of living humus beneath you, everything being written, all the while.