I loved sleeping in the garden room, my garden room where flowers and creatures were so close. It was nearly time for the moon to turn in and for me to turn out. Punk, lying on the mat beside my bed, got up, crept to the open…
Many a winter night Punk, who slept upstairs in my flat, and I crept down the long outside stair to the basement, sometimes crunching snow on every step, sometimes slipping through rain. Old moon saw us when she was full. When new, her chin curled towards her forehead…
Creeping around a basement in the small dark hours is not cheerful. A house’s underneathness is crushing–weight of sleep pressing from the flats above, little lumps of coal releasing miniature avalanches which rattle down the black pile, furnace grimly dead, asbestos-covered arms prying into every corner. Just…
hosted, designed & maintained by Marilyn Jones for the walks & talks, bus tours and presentations she offers on Emily Carr in-person and online from Victoria, BC.
