The Green Bench Under the Plane Tree

It seems odd, even to me, that I have always called this “home”, because I have only spent a small part of my life here. But I thought of it often, sometimes with longing, as on the days when you long to sit with and speak to an old friend. I might awake to a calm empty day, a day free of work and certain images might recur – a line of poplar trees, hills lightly etched in a morning mist, hollyhocks at the height of summer. And on one such day, a long time ago, I wrote about it, and what I wrote became a kind of prayer, my own little sutra, which I set in Letraset in 1969, and put in a plastic sleeve and pinned on the walls of the rooms I wrote in.

The Evening of the Day