Lilting Green

I look out at the back garden. Everything seems closer wirh the rain and mositure, the soft breeze tickling the plants and leaves into silent conversations, amiable and edgy too. A blackbird hops past looking for more worms, bathes in the bird bath even though it’s still drizzling.

I’ve craved green all my life. And now it’s there, right before me, I want more colours, different flowers, pansies especially, their faces nodding hello, different variegations, sweeps of fancy.

I think of other places, different countries, the majestic sweeps and monoloths of Navajoland in America, the way clouds thicken and even on the hottest of days there can be that thunderbirst. Or the deep green hills of North Devon, England, small coves, old buildings, small streams thickening into rivers, the estuary at Appledore, the soft names gentle on the breath.

Place dreaming, dreaming place.

The mythic and sacred heart

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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