13th March 2018
Under a three forked tree, wind blows through the noisy caw of crows.
They seem to own the woods here.
Trees of great height and fallen, filtered sunlight, daffodils and bark littered ground.
I want to walk through the woods but I’m on my own and not sure whether to take the risk. What if……..
Sitting on a bench just inside the turnstile gate allows for pause and reflection. Behind me, emerging daffodils grow in circles around palm trees. Beyond the low brick wall overlooking the lower village, there is a clear view of the beach and surrounding cliffs. I watch a small child at the waters edge, she dares the tide to stop at her feet, watching intently as it almost does. Gulls fly swiftly past. A grey container ship moves slowly out to open sea. In between gathering grey clouds, the sun warms my winter-pale face.
Walkers with children enter through the turnstile. There is safety in numbers and so I allow them five minutes or so to go ahead before following at a reasonable distance. Tall trees on either side of the path are aware of my touch on their rough bark. They watch and listen as I acknowledge their presence in my heart. Amongst the decay of fallen trees, hundreds of daffodils, buds not yet evident, line the edges of the path. Clumps of tiny white bell shaped flowers stand proud above the bracken. The music of the woods is tuning up for spring, new life sprung from the old.
A snowflake wends its way to earth,
dissolving on your hand.
Two or three and more leave
snow pearls in your hair.
You lift your face to the sky,
receive snow kisses on your skin,
hold your breath
as the magic gathers
and in the drifting white
the world is transfigured.
In an awesome quiet
you listen to the morning,
that echoes deep into your heart.
For Heather Dawn Kemp
seeping through pebbles,
over and under to the far-out sea.
Come back, come back, be filled.
One lonely gull,
no more than that to prove I exist,
Mounds of brown sea-weed,
great lumps of slime and slither on denser rock.
The scent of ozone everywhere
neither sweet nor pungent, in my lungs, my mind.
Xylophone tinkles on pebbles,
Power of Cello in wise old rocks.
Trumpet call from standing trees
that hold the cliffs a few days more.
A muffled silence in sagging,
rain filled clouds,
the long, lonely, notes roaring in my ears.
a single gull on the water,
9pm. The tide creeps slowly in.A seagull flies overhead. The helicopter returns, sees me here, sitting on this rock.Like an angel come to see if I’m alright, I’ll be alright, It tilts in acknowledgement, so low above, then returns to it’s watchful duty over the estuary, returning over and over like an old friend.
Watching Seagulls drifting air currents, my arms stretched wide.
Muscles soft, mind adrift.
Tracing patterns with gossamer wings.
The Winter Solstice brings more wind, more rain.
A single bird sings with many voices in the Holly tree.
The song is vibrant, clear, urgent. I long to understand its message,
but all I can hear is joy, all I can see is the Holly Tree,
singing to the wind and rain.