Mornings

1 April 2017

With care for no one the sea litters the coast with wrecks of boats and the ruins of rocks; the former will last but a few years, and whilst the latter may survive millennia, the sea will carve and craft them to its will smoothing the edges and shattering their hearts.

2 April 2017

Squeezed between sky and earth we live our small lives reflecting on the water; individually despoiling little, rarely leaving any discernible mark upon the world.  Collectively we can soar like eagles in the heavens if individuals act; alternatively we plunge into the muddy bog.

3 April 2017

Sadly they crawl from out their burrows barely blinking in the light; eyelids heavy with the night, their focus firmly on their phones they move step by steady step only straying from screens to sip from cardboard coffee cups; not seeing the lonely smear of green that struggles in the concrete crack.

4 April 2017

Coming home I find my body craves the ground beneath my feet.  Not the slab of city street or the tarmac of the town.  Earth is my desire.  Not the field rolled flat for formal games, nor the quiet suburban garden with all its memories of childhood.  Not yet the park where we ran and played without a sense of fear.  But real ground, earth that maybe mud.  Ground designed by Gaia with all the force of wind and rain of storm and tempest and occasional tectonic shift; disturbed by every growing plant however small, run over and dug under by more animals that I will ever meet.  Ground that tips each step another way; ground that makes the muscles work, that makes me struggle and makes me want to live.

5 April 2017

All Winter it has huddled in the earth and when water and warmth feel right it thrusts itself upward to take its chance.  The tulip – nature engineered by humans and planted by you – having grown throws out its beauty with flamboyance, daring the world to disagree.

6 April 2017

It is the light that powers everything, that provides the heat and energy for all; that breaks through trees and shadows branches that reach backward to the sky; that takes the eye and focuses it upon the spider slowly weaving webs of silver amongst the twigs; and drives the breeze that bends the web into a sail.

7 April 2017

Night has left her bounty upon the grass; from diamond dust to great globes defying gravity, balanced high above the earth; worlds within a world where creatures birth and live and die before a turning of this world topples theirs and scatters it upon our soil.

8 April 2017

In a great arc the shore curves away on either side, a longhorn steer looking at the sea across a flat bed of sand and seaweed half a mile deep. All is still and quiet as the spring sun shines down, whitening the rocks that ring the beach. Yet storms will come and roll the rocks until we hear the angry bellow of that steer.

9 April 2017

Cuckoo in among the twittering, the lazy freeloader of birds that dumps her young upon the goodness of others and swans off to live a life of relative ease.  Harbinger of spring of birth and of growth she may be but she exploits all around her who struggle to bring up their offspring in a cruel and heartless world.

10 April 2017

White dandelion pompoms stand out from the field of dewy grass; tall and proud, some ragged from the night before, others awaiting the first breeze to test their virginity.  Around the edges their closed yellow compatriots await the warmth of day to open to the light, wondering if they too will undergo this metamorphosis.

11 April 2017

In dappled shade they sit in quiet contemplation offering their beauty to those who take the time to stand and look.  A glance is not enough to take in the complexity of the blues and of the bells that tremble in the slightest breeze; flowers that mark this moment in the cycle of the year.

12 April 2017

A tree, ivy clad, old beyond its years, weather worn and bruised by wind, wondering if it has the energy for one more season.  Sap is slowly struggling to rise and buds are bracing themselves for that first great burst of growth.  If it begins the season it will be not knowing whether it will see the end.

13 April 2017

A silver ocean as the early light catches the dew and masks all imperfections; reflections and refractions carry scattered sunlight in all directions; connections made by spiders from blade to leaf to petal add dimensions; suspensions that transport smaller creatures from place to place amid the standing waves of a slowly steaming sea.

14 April 2017

Spring is strong and every single seed struggles to survive and grow; last year’s leaves beaten thin by wind and rain are quickly overwhelmed; fallen twigs and branches dried and lost to life are rapidly overgrown as youth forgets the old and scrabbles for a future always uncertain and rich with possibility.

15 April 2017

Breeding season: the spider struggles to move with the sack of eggs almost doubling its size; most to be eaten by birds tending their young; many of whom will be eaten by cats and weasels; some of which will succumb to the poisons, shotguns and care of humanity.

16 April 2017

Like clays fired from a trap they hurtle into the air curving away from each other to fool the predator.  Loyal wild ducks, live on and near the river, as they have for some years.  Loyal to here and to each other, always together wingbeats synchronised as they make their ungainly rise, leaving droplets of water shining in the air behind them.

17 April 2017

The daily path has spots and strands of green that grow even with my heavy tread and the disparate steps of my regular companions.  Despite our constant travel grass and flower somehow manages to find a foothold here and there.  Perhaps my feet sensing the first smidgeons of new life unconsciously allow them room to take their chance.

18 April 2017

Waning in a pale blue sky, Gaia’s handmaiden of a few billion years, tide turner and night light to her frightened children crying and struggling in the night, turns the sun’s golden light to silver.  Beside her like a lance a solitary contrail dissipates in the cool air.

19 April 2017

Two fruits, autumn twins, entwined in half of a wrinkled protective shell; pressed into the soft earth at the path’s edge.  I wonder who brought you here; whether you were winter food dropped in a moment’s panic; if one of you will beat the odds and become neither nourishment nor compost but germinate and grow to offer your own harvest to the world.

20 April 2017

There is something strange about a stranger’s footfall upon the plot; not friend or family but known only through a temporary relationship built on trust and technology.  The dogs know she is staying and we are going and align themselves with the primary food provider.

21 April 2017

The sound of suburban rubbish bins breaks through.  Opening curtains reveals the close proximity of unknown people; lights switch on and shadows move from room to room; lives will be lived, some will leave for the last time and others arrive; the world will turn and with it the tenuous links from one to other.

22 April 2017

Close the sounds of others, family grouped near, young and old.  Unfamiliar yet repetitious of younger days; calls of adults bring back their cries as children.  New children who have never been older or old cry afresh, new yet familiar.

23 April 2017

Goodbyes are the order of the morning as the gathering separates and the people disperse; three generations held by food and wine, by family and friendship; elder siblings speak of gatherings of when parents held their wise position; the middle rung relaxes in each other’s stories, hopes and fears; whilst the youngest struggle to understand the relationships that link this complex household.

24 April 2017

A burble and a gurgle, a midnight cry and a dawn demand; the youngest of the young live in the eternal present with few memories of their short pasts.  And yet they know their mothers’ faces and their arms and their hugs and their kisses and their love.  We elders visit and receive at least as much as we bestow.

25 April 2017

Terrible torture of London traffic; the chug, the brake, the glare, the swerve; the near shunt, the close shunt, the only just not shunt; the time to flicker through the dashboard readings: speed poor; mph below belief; time to destination advances faster than the traffic; finally the realisation that it would have been faster round the M25.

26 April 2017

Nothing evolved to travel on an overnight ferry.  Comingling in the warm soup of the midnight bar, even when someone tries to sing, is unlikely to spark a higher form of life; unless the pale eggs and limp sausages offered for breakfast are intended

27 April 2017

Rising as the earth turns sun cuts a mark across frosted earth; anything in the open but still shadowed by the trees is white. A strip under a foot wide is the demarcation between that and damp green; in between the ragged frontier boasts pools of white and streams of dew as it moves slowly across the world.

28 April 2017

Three ducks rather than two explode from out the stream at our approach; not young, the third is adult; perhaps a cousin on a visit; an earlier brood come to check on the aging parents; an interloper snuggling into the established pair; or a messenger come to tell a secret.

29 April 2017

Young dog sniffs and runs, everything is interesting and must be investigated. Old dog sniffs and walks, potential food is interesting and can be investigated. Young dog chases birds and would follow them into the sky. Old dog watches remembering his youth when flying seemed possible.

30 April 2017

In spring the wind calls to the high branches
And they wave leaves and they dance in reply
Wind speaks to them in gushes and rushes
Reminding them of winter’s great roaring

Wind speaks to elder trunks and ancient limbs
They discuss lost cousins who tumbled and fell
Remember those brothers stood strong and true
Through so many autumns of rot and rain

Wind whispers to the grasses and flowers
New born bursting forth from the woodland floor
Tells them secrets of summers yet to be
When wind will waft their seed to places new

 

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