RHYMES&REASONS

Observations, Thoughts and Reflections on 21st Century Life

Category: Love

In the Bleak Midwinter

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Winter.

 The living foundation of us all.  The underlying heart, which continues to beat out it’s rhythm when all seems lost.

 The joyful, which in another season’s time would raise a smile, is met by the hard gaze of frozen ground that no nourishment or distraction can melt.  The beauty of the brown barren land is lost to us as we seek in vain the colour and warmth from a distant time.

Dormant.

We long to move on, to leave behind the chilling air which engulfs as fog and cloys our every thought.  We plough our way through the detritus at our feet, heavy with sodden tears.  And wearily we sigh as all we turn over is bleakness.  This internal airing of spinning thoughts, wringing them dry until they fall as fragile leaves at our feet, serves to relieve the burden we heavily bear.

Lost.

Temporarily in the lightness of an empty mind, unsure and wary of the way forward, impatiently we scuff the ground with our feet.  And there we catch a glimpse among the array of wintry browns, a tiny shoot of brightest green, tender, vulnerable and yet poised to unfurl.  A symbol of our inner desire conscious or not as it begins to once more stir, the manifestation of a living, hidden current which runs through.

Patience.

When all you see is fog across the land, or dust settled on a lost love’s rose, smile and be sure for the light is yet to be revealed.

Painting ‘Reflections Unfurled’ by Rebecca Pells

https://www.artfinder.com/product/reflections-unfurled/

Reflections Unfurled

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I’m drawn to return to the place of my birth –

where I took my first guttural breath and found myself at last.

Dust settling in layers upon it’s first blush,

the fresh young shoots crushed, lay stunted by neglect,

devoid of the nutrient which first gave life.

I thought I’d found my Garden of Eden –

but arriving too soon, the ground unprepared and ploughed with furrows past.

Extremes of withholding drought and gushing flood,

the pendulum struck it’s final blow.

The way closed for now at least, I grow my own path

Beneath the dust an inner harvest toils

strengthening, strengthening, nourished by a place beyond thoughts,

a lixor of passion, reciprocal, replenishing.

Verdure anew with each season past.

A gentle breeze as particles stir, at first one spec then two, three.

Hurry not,  slowly to unfurl the green shoots once more,

carefully, tenderly as a butterfly cupped.

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