Sylvotherapy

I wandered the woods,

followed the narrow dusty track,

skeletons of season on season littered my feet.

Sat beneath an aged oak,

salt tears stung my cheeks

as crows in the treetops taunted my sorrow.

I sobbed for the acrid air and poisoned rivers,

mourned the dying ash,

grieved the stray swallow family,

wailed the loss of lively hedgerow and swaying meadow,

sighed my sadness into the shadows.

“Hush child,” whispered the oak

lowering rough branches to cradle me,

foliage cool as the rippling stream.

“We will be here when human has gone.

When cutting, digging and taking is silent.

When shaping, ordering and reinventing is done.

Our seeds will grow deep in Earth’s warmth.

Our roots will spread wide and strong in the quiet.

Humankind will fall as Autumn leaves.

Flutter away like dust.

Hush now, your time draws near.

Spend it safe beneath our mantle.

Drink in calm, green beauty.

Rest on soft, mossy banks.

Be as trees, use only what is needed.

Grow resilient, face your future without fear.”

Renewed, I rose and began the journey home.

The last goodbye

Goodbyes are the worst.

Shrugging off the snug blanket of freedom,

carefree moments slip from the shoulders on

the station platform.

Back to normal life, cutting the loose yarn,

each passing township, another dropped stitch,

wearing thinner at every announcement.

The train rocks onward, trailing thread on thread,

And home will arrive.

Spring is alive

Bits of beauty,

moments of magic,

sights of something special,

out walking the dog.

Help me to remember,

time will be forgiving.

Remind me that life

is still worth living.

I haven’t felt much like writing recently, which isn’t good, but getting out and about enjoying Spring’s offerings can lift and inspire. I promised Angie at King Ben’s Grandma that I would share pictures of some the flowers here in the Welsh countryside as I’ve enjoyed looking at her photos of the exotic plants of SoCal.

A Woman’s Place

A woman’s place is in the home.

A woman’s place is on her back.

A woman’s place is to be a good girl.

A woman’s place is to be a dirty whore.

A woman’s place is mouth closed and legs open.

A woman’s place is to be kind.

A woman’s place is to show some compassion.

A woman’s place is to listen.

A woman’s place is to shut the fuck up.

A woman’s place is under a man.

A woman’s place is to share.

A woman’s place is nowhere.

A woman’s place is with friends.

A woman’s place is with family.

A woman’s place is at work.

A woman’s place is self-organisation.

A woman’s place is strong.

A woman’s place is to ask questions.

A woman’s place is to get angry.

A woman’s place is to speak out.

A woman’s place is to say no.

A woman’s place is to tell the truth.

A women’s place is a safe space.

A woman’s place is everywhere.

Dancing alone

Enjoy the days when sleep evades you, when you pace the chilly floor, a restless shadow, soothing the warm bundle in your arms. Make the most of the times when door handles are sticky, feet bruised with plastic brick imprints, a favourite jumper smeared with snot, or goodness knows what. Breathe in that special, belonging to your baby, smell. Take it deep, deep into your lungs. So, you’ll never forget.

Every trip an adventure, every moment a question, the wide-eyed why? why? why? Back breaking bag full of books, crayons, plasters, snacks and sand, always sand. Bucketfuls of shells and stones. Crinkly seaweed, stinky dead crab, bleached bones. Shiny conkers, spiky beech nuts. Bark rubbings and coin rubbings and grave rubbings. Bumps, scrapes, tears, laughter, lots of laughter. Singing in the car, in the bath, in the park. Kitchen band, walloping the pots and pans.

Later, gossip and giggles, worries shared, successes and failures. Falling outs and making ups. Lifts given, endless waiting. Meals spent around the fire, guitar playing, silly prancing. Cello screech, drum machine beat, tap, tapping of a foot keeping time on the ceiling.

The house is quiet now, stillness fills spaces where junk models stood. Silence wiped fingerprints away. Everything tidy, where it should be, in its place. The songs I sing to myself, dancing alone.

At rest

The world is at rest,

a respite from the noise, from the fumes, from the crowds.

Let us be braver,

conquer all our fears, our anxieties, our doubts.

 

Raise our voices in love, in friendship, in kindness.

Notice what’s important, overcome our blindness.

Remember Mother Earth, renew our connection.

Keep safe, keep strong, keep faith in our shared protection.

 

The world is at rest.

We can pass this test.

Relearn old ways for

future better days.

Years ago

My husband and I started dating in 1991. We’ve recently celebrated our Silver Wedding Anniversary – that’s a long time together and a long time married. Like any married couple, we’ve had our ups and downs. It takes work to have a successful relationship, and some days it’s hard to put the effort in, but we’re doing all right. We both agree that we’re happy. Here’s a poem I wrote a while back about long-term partnerships.

 

Years ago, you knocked on my door.

I put the chain across,

opened it a slit and

looked you over.

Then I

let you in.

For a drink, a chat.

 

But you

hung up your coat,

took off your shoes,

put your

feet under the table.

 

Sometimes we danced in the living room

giggling until we

fell in dizzy heaps.

Sometimes we sat reading

separate novels,

lost in

distant worlds.

Other times we fought,

brutal bloody battles,

no one could win.

 

Sometimes we shared a meal

together, diced sliced,

laughed over a glass of wine,

candles twinkling.

Sometimes we were tired, got take away,

couldn’t be

bothered with the effort.

Other times we ate apart,

solitary below the

cold kitchen light.

 

Sometimes we snuggled

beneath the duvet,

late lazy lay-ins,

close, so we were

touching.

Sometimes we gave a

peck on the cheek, rolled over,

started snoring.

Other times we slept alone,

chilly with a blanket, on the

hard floor of the

spare room.

 

But you

made yourself at home.

And I

never moved out.

We’re still here.

 

 

Here

To sit on a World War II gun battery,

crumbling tumble-down shelter to shaggy sheep,

symbol of war, hate and death.

To watch the early summer sun sinking

behind bold distant hills,

spilling fiery colour across clouds.

To listen to the last birdsong of evening,

eerie calls of pheasant hiding in wavy grass,

maniacal cries of horned beasts.

To see that blazing ball of flame

drip amber, pink and gold upon the settled sea.

To experience a moment of peace

removed from this world of madness, fear and sorrow.

Life-affirming minutes;

we exist now, at this time,

we are here.

Song

To bring a tear to someone’s eye, with your voice.

To touch a person, make them cry, with a song.

That must matter, I can’t deny,  it’s power.

Preseli Walk

Trudge breathless up boggy slopes,

squelching puddles pool under rubber heels.

Reach glorious heights of heather,

illuminated blankets in bright sunshine.

Beneath ancient sculpted rock,

rest on tumbled stone touched by pagan hand.

Warm breeze lifting hair from damp skin,

gaze on a patchwork as clouds cast ink blots.