What will the Harvest be?

The cycle of life goes on. They’ve just ploughed the fields and planted the seed behind our backgarden, and now await this year’s growth and coming harvest. I can’t help but wonder what the harvest will look like that comes out of the seed planting during these dark and confining times. Will Nature’s voice be heard? Will lessons be learnt and be built into a future beyond this frightening and challenging time? I sincerely hope so.

From my Sketchbook

In the English landscape, you often see a single, sizable and old tree standing in a flat and expansive landscape. Although it has the look of loneliness about it, it’s locational rootedness is a positive affirmation of its presence and its right to be there. It makes no apologies for its presence.

Whenever I see such a tree, it affirms in me “my right to be here”  and I live and move through this beautiful world without any apology for my presence.

Daffodils

Yesterday, in the soft rain, I walked over to where we park our car. The sky and everything else seemed so grey – all a bit depressing. Then I saw them, pressed up against the trunk of a tree, a glorious clump of Daffodils. As I looked at them I was ushered into my day with a new sense of joy and vigour, and my mind turned to one of my favourite poets:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;

 

To Be Amazed

Passed this lichen on my walk yesterday.

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I’ve always been a great admirer of the poetry and writings of Mary Oliver. The other day I was going through some notes of mine and came across these words of hers – deeply touching. Sadly, she died in January 2019.

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”

She lived these words.

Champing The Grasses

This morning I stopped alongside a fence and listened to a horse grazing in the field. It was a beautiful sound, breathy and hollow with an echoing kind of chomp, punctuated now and then by the slight sound of the grinding of teeth. It was a lovely moment and I was transported back to some of the words of a favourite poem of mine, “The Listeners” by Walter de La Mare:

Is there anybody there? said the Traveller,   
   Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   
   Of the forest’s ferny floor:
I loved, and still love, the phrase – “The forest’s ferny floor” I can go on saying it forever – “The forest’s ferny floor” – and I can hear his horse in the silence champing away at the grasses.

 

 

Walking in the Woods

I enjoy walking through the woods. Whenever an opportunity to do so presents itself, I welcome it. There’s something so idyllic and peaceful about it. However, there’s also something a little strange about it. Many spaces in the woods have a wonderfully welcoming atmosphere about them, and lingering in them can be so uplifting and energising; but, there are also spaces that feel decidedly uncomfortable, disconcerting, even a little malevolent, and the feeling to get away is intense. Strange, I’ve never been able to understand this contradiction. It’s a mystery to me, and I’ve come to accept it like that – even been in awe of it at times.