Old School House, East Stoke, Dorset

We set to in the garden - every blade of grass, every hook of bramble, every nettle leaf - shines with rainwater - I cut down a buddleia tree - the slender shoots and young branches snap easily, or are sawn through within moments - I feel like a murderer of trees - the sky is full of small clouds shaped like scales - the air smells of earth and water - soon a pile of torn branches is built up in a corner of the garden, near the railway fence - leaves are scattered on the lawn, like sad pages torn from a book

Before - this cutting down -  I chop up some wood for kindling - the axe blade follows the grain of the wood, glancing round knot holes - whilst I chop, or saw, or tear, I feel very calm - empty of thoughts - only full of sensation - the feel of the buddleia leaves against my finger tips - the wet of the grass seeping through my torn blue boat shoes - the spooky sky above - I look at the late blackberries - purplish black tiny swollen globes of sweetness, amidst the brambles - the green moss on the jagged branches of the elderberry tree in the far corner of the garden (next to the high hedge, which screens the new graveyard - (they open up the dark soil to bury dead people - they insert shiny headstones into the bright turf)

I see the spiky ball of a thistle - the red leaves of a plant, artlessly draped over a barbed wire fence - I think - soon I will make a log fire 

Anne uproots a shrub - my mum has told us - Autumn is the time for tidying up gardens - the inability to do any gardening by herself - even in her tiny postage stamp sized garden - is a real blow to her

I think - the logs stacked up by the wall are very damp