I want to start by saying thank you to everyone that has contributed to this, the last collection of 2017, I have the honour and the privilege of taking this magazine to the finest luxury sites, the homes of artists and the kind of drop sites that always seem to have an incredible audience of warm and receptive readers.
It has been an incredible journey across the last five year’s discovering the people and places of Dorset and building a client base that has responded to each edition with a wholehearted enthusiasm and in turn friendships that have blossomed, this isn’t a business but more of a joy for me and I would love to wish everyone involved, from photographers, retailers, hoteliers and of course my loyal and avid readers a very merry Christmas and a hugely prosperous New Year.
I would love to sign off with a little poem from the magnificently talented and incredibly cool ‘Poet Laureate’ at Bournemouth Borough Council – Myriam San Marco.
I’ll start up slow.
My thoughts under cover of snow grasping
at consciousness and vocal chords I don’t possess.
I stand here. Rooted.
Stretching my bud-finger growth to catch sunlight.
My low branches turn to the skies.
My roots dig deep.
My sap will rise.
It’s winter still.
I stand here, at the edge of the wood, let foxes make their home in the hollow of my back, invite migrating sparrows to nest in my shoulders and in the hole by my ankles, hedgehogs sleep. Near sunset, the boy crunches the hill to speak to me once more. He walks as if bees had told him their secret dance, all jaggedy footsteps and eyes bent out of shape. He rubs his hands on my bark, face pressed in knots and grooves, resting forehead to lips across the grain. He flings sentence after sentence at me, in dew-spattered words, biting like African red ants, hands to fists, knuckles scraping.
I can’t talk back and his story hangs in the air between us.