All posts tagged: not really

under starry vaults and sails

under a cupola and a willow tree i watch whispering couples holding hands and walking quietly around cloister gardens. all i can hear is the sound of the wind, and from time to time, sunday service cathedral choirs singing latin hymns, or else chanting their sacred devotions, under starry vaults and sails. for a moment, i’m crying, it’s surprising. in the courtyard, the cherry plums are small, and crooked, sharp branches sparkling with sap, like frosted sugar crystals, petals as snow. Advertisements

where the willow meets the water

a walk in the park, a picnic on the hill, there are bluebells growing in the shade, birds building nests where the willow meets the water. the wind still has a touch of winter to it, i think, pale white cherry plum petals falling like snow. i lie down on the grass, daisies and dandelions dotted about, they’re drinking up the sun. the touch of now-not-quite-as-cold earth against crinkled coat against chiffon the colour of april rain clouds against bare skin. i drink the last of my karak tea, pull the hat over my eyes, see speckled light through woven straw sparkling, and once more, allow my thoughts their drifting, as they might decide. to love and loss and longing, and then to language and what might lie beyond all that, key to the cage or else divine diaphanous veil or maybe it’s all just easy enchantment. i’m so very uncertain about a lot, these days, but one thing i do know is that if i don’t have faith in there being some sort of …

lemon drop daffodils

enchanted, frightened, in equal measure. eloi, eloi. edges of the wild, evergreens, powerlines. a little too old-fashioned, english girl impractically nostalgic. abalone shells as altar of eros, ink stained fingers planting tomatoes and irises. foxgloves, forget-me-nots, pressed into the pages of heavy books and forgotten forever. feed the hummingbirds before breakfast, they’ll hover about the kitchen window, sing the songs that appear as they wish. mint tea in a mason jar, mountain on my chest. eloi, eloi. march 2019: saturday evening. lemon drop daffodils, saint julian’s day, heavenly protector of wanderers far from home and looking to find safe lodging. old man’s beard, traveller’s joy. english pear scented candles crackle. shadow and glow. earlier this afternoon*, probably the last of this winter’s snow, although it was eleven degrees and i don’t entirely understand how. tonight, though, now, raindrops race one another from the top to the bottom of my apartment windows. lavender’s burning, lilac perfume. a spoonful of elderberry syrup, a two cup teapot, i fall asleep under stars on the ceiling. the next morning, and …

daffodils (diary)

this is the gift of the soul, before the body surrenders, and like sunlight on saltwater, breaks into impossible colours.   07.02.19: a single new bloom wild daffodil grows at the top of vicarage hill. people used to believe that they would appear where once ancient temples, or monasteries, stood. holy ground, tread with reverence. muddy red clay paw prints meander about the pavement. there are mosses and mushrooms, too, growing along the shadowy banks of oak-shaded lanes. i’m thinking about how strange and splendid all of this is, how it’s already beginning to feel like the start of a new season. each day, increasing numbers of snowdrops and crocuses spring into their brief being. i can hear gulls, in the distance, they’ll be gliding around the harbour, over rooftops, between spires. a sea-birds’ choir.  

sunlight, transformed.

diary 04.02.19   i am two hours out of london, now my train is speeding faster, now and the horizon stretches out vaster than it has before. there are rolling meadows, ancient hedgerows, mythical moors and snow-tinged distant hilltop tors. this is our inherited land. this is not at all what we had planned, but there are shipwrecked sunken boats and silver tidal sands shifting and settling like swept in stardust. last night, it stormed. i’ve got to trust that all of this is sunlight, transformed.

sundial or sea-bird (diary)

a pearl grey propitious first february morning and i’ve faith as a sundial or a sea-bird’s wing and like me, the ivy leaves are all shivering and there are silver bell snowdrops, each will ring in the spring.     it is imbolc, brigid’s day,  candlemas, a traditional beginning of spring, and i’m wearing inherited pearls and reading about stellaria holostea. i am the ‘flower of sorrow’ so they say no glory can i borrow from the May yet, starlike, mid the green my fragile flowers are seen so faith her steadfast eye lifts to the sky it’s a second hand charity shop book on plant lore, illustrated by rosemary wise and written by josephine addison. i’ve also a very old-fashioned book on traditional british cooking, and it’s just fantastic. summer pudding, fisherman’s stew, sand cakes, and stilton mousse (which sounds awful, in my opinion). tomorrow, i’m to finish my packing for the ukraine: – bobble hat, two – camera, two – lenses, three – impractical phrases scribbled on a piece of paper, three – …