Dreaming of Bluebells


I dream about being in a bluebell woodland,

Morning’s dampness on my hands.

I find a torn seam in elemental’s veil;

Ask to enter the precious trail.



Bare toes tickling on grassy moss, 

Nose wrinkling as plumes of bluebells waft;

Lost in a deep purple blue lake,


Looking at the shapes the old oak makes,

Their wizened branches seeking light,

Orange tip butterflies flee with all their might!


Woodland’s serenade fades gently like a breeze;

I take a sip of Titania’s tea,

Finding myself mixing a pool of morning dew

With soothing dainty hues from the bluebell wood

on my watercolour palette ready for a new painting to emerge.

Lacy Lilac


A drift of lacy

Lilac mingled with purple;

Unfurling tiny

Twirling petals, butterflies

Sit on pungent pillows.

Replenishing Rapeseed


Rapeseed replenishes, 

Energises.

Clouds of buttery yellow billow;

Brimstones and Commas drenched

In honeyed pollen,

Wings tilting elegantly

Dancing in sunshine.

Unfortunately those gorgeous delicate butterflies won’t linger long enough! But it is wonderful to watch them. 

Rapeseed oil I hear is very good for us, especially if it is cold pressed. It can help painful joints. 

Happy Easter all! 🙂

Hawthorn morning



Hawthorn petals

like a lace wedding veil,

torn in a March gale;

sailing on scented winds

like fairy wings-

bringing spring’s tingling feeling

of happy, lingering, sunny days.

 
This poem is dedicated to yesterday’s International Poetry Day and a celebration of spring.

I’m really enjoying our walks in the countryside around Cople. Each day I wonder how many more buds are out, what suprises are there under the hedgerows: daisies, celedine, anemonies and tiny violets. Skylarks serenade us along the paths at the edges of fields and red kites circle above. Our prize is watching the brown hares running along the furrows and sunning themselves. Such beauty is to be savoured every moment!

Serene Snowdrop


Serene Snowdrop,

Small heart translucent face,

Peeping shyly through downy lace.

Awakened by a sour biting  breeze,

Which makes her cower, she

Curls up, sheltering under boughs

Of mighty beech trees.

Suddenly a shower of frosty crystals

Adorn the mysterious, tearful princess,

Crowning her with a spectacular tiara

As the dryad minstrels play their lyres.

Uplifting Rainbow


The sky darkens

Inkblots spread

Creating ghostly shadows

Swallowing the land.

Creatures hide Iin hollows

As spectral crossbows shoot

Icy arrows.

Suddenly white wings sweep

Across the shadows;

Golden breath blows

A magical rainbow of

Sparkling light.


Tallow rays


The misty morn peels,

Revealing sentinels of wintery fields.

Tallow rays, like a sweet mead glaze

Healing: a warming haze.

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Treading through the meadow, footsteps as light as a fae,

Amazingly, brightening the day,

A pretty, pixie flower called sweet violet

Appears alone, shielded by the sleeping hedgerow

And wrapped with ivy and bay.

 

Musing…



Tracing grooves in ancient oak bark

With tingling fingers, soothed; 

Sheltered in the wings of strong silent boughs.

Wooed by whispering tales from distant shores.

Amber acorns break onto fresh  fallen crushed leaves

Seeding under misted mosses and musty funghi

Where stories weave. 

Challenging the poet with Prose


Is writing my poetry blog a deliberate distraction from the challenge to write a novel in a month?

Or…

Is the act of writing and rambling a way of getting the creative juices going?

I have had the main characters in my novel swirling about in my brain for a couple of years, may be longer. When I’m walking with the dogs, watching them and noticing the changing cloud formations or ripples on water, I can zone in on the action of the novel and what the characters are feeling and thinking. When I stop and feel close up to nature, my world reverts to poetry.

I find at first light I greet the day with my cup of coffee and pen poised to write about 1800-2000 words. My husband has gone out to work, the dogs are stretched out on the sofa. I love the quietitude. If it is calm and silent, my felt tip fibre pen takes off. I know this novel won’t be perfect because if I was using the language of poetry, it would probably take me the rest of my years to finish the first draft. I’m just letting the innocence of the novel flow and see where it ends.

For the Nanowrimo website I created a quick cover design and thought of a title: this may change.

I will always be a nature poet and photographer who writes the occasional  novel. Even the genre is a  tricky one. I don’t want to restrict myself.

Writing is freedom.


Synopsis to follow. Thank you for reading my friends.

Tree festival


Through wild woods,

Parting shimmering drapes,

Greeted by a fanning of tiny hands

Seated next to dryads wrapped in cosy ruby capes.

Swirling dervlas swish folksy skirts,

Weaving dreamily through silver birches.



Crystals wink as the fairy choir sings in the wings,

Waiting for woodland girl to emerge, her gown tinged with whispers

of pearly tears.


Trailing across silvery skies, a carriage pulled by white doves glides…

The audience sighs!

Queen of the forest has arrived!