Secret Gardens with Magic Doors

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This is the magic keyhole mentioned in the title of this dog, whoops, I meant blog, jeez, I used to get "dog" and "god" confused, as each is the other spelled backwards, but now I have to reckon with "dog" and "blog", well I'll be flogged... let's start again....

This is the magic keyhole mentioned in the title of this blog, and this is one sort of photograph I love making, simple, but full of powerful provocation for the imagination . . .

Look closely at how the rust is eating away the metal plate of the keyhole, can you see the seahorse? Rust, oxydation, simple action of water bearing oxygen uniting with iron molecules in the metal alloy that some human labored so industriously to fabricate a hundred years ago or more, thinking it would last forever, but now it is rusting away. And the texture in the flaking paint is lovely too, the magic door once was blue... and the remaining paint on the metal plate has been stained the color of rust...

What was it Neil Young said about "Rust Never Sleeps" ; or "There's more to the picture than meets the eye...", in the same song ? Or Joan Baez : "We both know what memories bring... they bring diamonds and rust"

But what I really like here is the slightest glimpse of sunlight on greenery through the magic keyhole, through the looking glass, as it were, hinting of a secret, well hidden grove behind the stout wood door set in a high stone wall... who lives there ? What goddess waits within ? Something straight out of a John Fowles story, a muse hiding in the trees, waiting to be coaxed into existence... and here is the whole door... it hasn't been opened in ages... isn't it tempting... I love the way the stone at the foot of the door has weathered a dark forest green... which reminds me of what follows below, a song with roots in traditional folk music which Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel made famous ... just step through the door :

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...............................................Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley sage rosemary and thyme

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine
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Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
(A hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Tracing of sparrow On snow-crested brown)
Without no seams nor needlework
(Blankets and bedclothes The child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)
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Tell her to find me an acre of land
(On the side of a hill A sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Washes the grave with silvery tears)
Between the salt water And the sea strand
(A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
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Tell her to reap it
With a sickle of leather
(War bellows blazing In scarlet battallions)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather
(And to fight for a cause They've long ago forgotten)

Then she'll be a true love of mine

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(Not my photo, but don't know who did take it)