The slope of my attic roof rose in a broad benevolent peak, poking bluntly into the sky, sinking to a four-foot wall. At one end of the gable were two longs, narrow windows which allowed a good view view to come into the room, a view of sea, roof top and purple hills. Directly below the windows spread a great western maple tree, very green. Things about my place were more spready than high, myself, my house, the sheepdogs , and Dolf, the Persian cat, whose silver fleece parted down the centre of his back and fluffed wide. Even my applied tress and lilacs grew spready.

In the wall, opposite the windows of my attic was the room door with a tiny landing before it. Off this landing and over the studio was a dark cobwebby place, tangled with wiring, plumbing, ventilation and mystery. The plaster had oozed up through the lathing on the wrong side of the ceiling and set in bumpy furrows. I had a grim dislike of this place but the high studio ventilated through it , so the little square door had to be left ajar. I painted an Indian bear totem on this white-washed door.

On the generous slope of the attic rod I painted two Indian eagles. They were painted right on the underside of the roof shingles. Their great spread wings covered the entire ceiling of the attic. The heads of the eagles title upwards in a bold, unafraid enquiry. I loved to lie close under these strong Indian symbols They were only a few feet above my face as I slept in this attic bedroom. They made “strong talk” for me, as my Indian friends would say.

When, after twenty years [it was actually twenty three years], people bought my house and turned it into a fine modern block, so they took away the little stair leading from the studio, they removed the door and windows, but they could not remove my eagles without tearing the roof off the house. The eagles belonged to the house for all time.

Old eagles, do you feel my memories come creeping back to you in your entombed, cobwebby darkness?