poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
Time slowly drips into the new year.
Just another day laden with too much expectation.
Only last night we cheered the forward motion of the clock,
and wished one another well–for once
And took stock of time and people left behind,
on the other side of midnight.
Winter doldrums are days of a permanent grey. The sun remains unseen, and light barely breaks through the dirty curtains.
Hark! Sarnies to the rescue and a cuppa.
Coffee. Black. Strong. Fragrant.
You may have tea.
Small blessings are the strongest anchors of joy.
Each creating a colourful dot on my fairy light string.
Cold drops play a splattering song,
on the wet street and the hood of my coat.
I shuffle along to the 12 bar blues, somewhere water is leaking into my boots,
and the world around me is in brown and grey hues.
Winter doldrums are a never ending grey.
Where the day blends into the night and the nights won’t become day.
So I bring out the candles, light fire, fairy lights, books, chocolate and journals are all my favourite things.
I meander between stories and rhyme, as I wrap my blanket tightly.
Warm beeswax candles shine.
Shush now dear reader, just pause and listen.
Because in the right light even dull dirty grey rain drops with glisten.
Flat was my main complaint.
Everything is just so flat.
No mountains, not even hills,
At most we have some rolling fields.
There is no ocean either.
No seaside, beach or other feature.
A river half an hour walk across the road.
At least in our cellar lives a toad.
-Or three
And summers are hot.
And winters have snow.
If only there would be some hills to show.
Witchgrass Acre
An Ice age afterthought
Rocks salt the soil
witchgrass sprouts from tiny crevasses
Mammoth teeth strewn below ground
Teeth, geodes, rocks and sand
Blanketed by brittle clay
Stone age pottery brought to the surface by autumn tilling
Once I even found a bronze age brooch
Witchgrass Acre
Ancient land
A meandering river bed
An old side arm
Indentation across the Western end of the farm
This is where the floods go first
Witchgrass Acre
The ancient creeds are still walking along paths forgotten
Overlaid realities
Sometimes you can see their shadow
Paths come and go
Medicinal plants everywhere
Holler* and Rowan protect the parameters
Witchgrass Acre grows powerful women
*Holler is an old fashioned word for Elder Tree in German
Paths meander between realities
Today I walk along
Amongst the trees
Woodpecker greeting me with her staccato efforts
Tomorrow you are not there
You that path branching off at this tree
Tomorrow I will pass the tree and you won’t be waiting
Just to re-appear another time
And so I walk in between the here and now
Along the tree lined ribbon
Guided by the drum of a beak
Knee deep snow beyond the paths
Mountain pine branches bent by white weight
Stillness of a windless day
Monks’ chanting
In the Buddhist temple at the apogee
The only noise besides the crunch of snow underfoot
The chants an eerie iterance
In a silent world
Carrying us up the mountain
Breath visible in frozen air
I am in this world and other world
Walking the liminal space
Floating in a white suspense
Prayers as metronome
On a snow-muted day
I am here, and now
And always and everywhere
In this moment
Poetry by Nathalie 