It is strange how the brown, burnished golden leaves of the beech tree, cleave to the branches through wind and hail, rain and snow. Frost rimed they stay rocking in the wind and clinging on until the new brown shoots, green and burgeoning cover the autumnal branches with fresh life. They are like the dying… Continue reading The Beech Hedge’s Grace
Month: February 2023
Snowdrops – Eirlys
Full of the promise of warmer days they took my gaze, tiny green shoots with whitened tips in the frosted grass, opening their white lily bells with green tipped trumpets, my love for them grew as the night hours’ lightening hue. —– Covering the winter cold earth they drift over brown earth, and shine like… Continue reading Snowdrops – Eirlys
Summer
Shells line the shore, empty waiting to catch a child’s eye, to be rearranged into shapes and swirls of imagination, the click of the empty whelk homes amidst the chattering. And the sheltering sand creeps into every gap it can find. — Laughter spills over to spread delight to the racing waters that threaten the… Continue reading Summer
A Still Small Voice
Are you a speck of light in the darkness? A tiny candle flame down an endless tunnel? Warmth in a cold place? A broken brick in a wall? A kind word in a disaster? A touch when we are full of fear? A foot step on a lonely road? A thought in my depression? An… Continue reading A Still Small Voice
The Cult of War.
Tarnished shells of tragedy and sorrow, burnt out buildings and long snout guns, stand against the hideousness of violence and the cult of war. Children flung from cowering to funerals, parents arms empty, people without homes, empty plates and emptier eyes hollowed by pain, and the cult of war. Trampled plants and the trembling of… Continue reading The Cult of War.
The Still Small Voice?
—- Are you a speck of light in the darkness? A tiny candle flame down an endless tunnel? Warmth in a cold place? A broken brick in a wall? A kind word in a disaster? A touch when we are full of fear? A foot step on a lonely road? A thought in my depression?… Continue reading The Still Small Voice?
Clouds of Grace
There is a drawing I did as a child of clouds round and white, and then I began to see their silent majesty. — Today, they’re greys and whites, tracked with tractor tyres and old bones softened with pastels and sheep’s wool. —- They make no sound as they trail across the sky, quietly changing… Continue reading Clouds of Grace
Covid exhausts
Covid exhausts, the government exhausts the climate exhausts where then is the grace? We are not alone. Everything has a cause. We are like a sea tossed ship, that has forgotten there is land.