25th March 1671

Distant drums call from coastal villages, waking me from slumber. I walk a pathway through suburban gardens filled with ancient sunhouses, ghosts of cats and dogs run at my feet. My bag is packed with memories and sandwiches and morning clouds seem to follow with ease, shadowy gardeners leaning on wooden spades and hoes watch me as I pass, forward there is future, behind me broken paths

24th March 1671

There is nothing wrong, nothing untoward or amiss, No one is hiding in hedgerows or crouching unseen on pantry shelves, no black dogs scratching at doors or bats in distant belfries, my gardens are clear from ghouls and unwanted guests, the madness and flux run of unwanted, my windows bring only daylight, dark clouds seek someone else but me