Monday 12 December 2011

Trees

'If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees' (Hal Borland)

Throughout history, trees have been powerful symbols of life, growth, wisdom, nobility and longevity. Their roots reach down into the ground and their branches extend up to the sky at the same time. Steeped in many myths and legends, trees have prevailed throughout time (some oak trees reaching two hundred plus years old). These iconic plants have been recognised in many historic ideas such as the tree of knowledge of good and evil, the tree of life, the ygdrassil tree (in Norse mythology). The druids of early Britain worshipped trees, the Greeks assigned them spirits called dryads and individual trees have been revered as sacred by some cultures. They also support many ecosystems and are specific to certain climates and environments. Some of the oldest trees in the world have been found to be around five thousand years old! Celebrate the value that trees bring to our life!


Tree Consciousness

The twigs, branches - burnt by the season's frost,
Patient, grounded even in suffering;
Alone, always listening - but never forlorn.

There is no question or urgency to it's task,
Quiet understanding of cycles and patterns;
Whispers and murmurs, as the moon saunters past.

Seen through it's barrenness,
The naked eye of truth wisdom;
A blueprint of time that continues to last.

Untroubled, and still with the cold,
A custodian of enigma;
Secret keeper of old.

LB

Thursday 1 December 2011

Autumn

Autumn and spring are my two favourite seasons. I love the moderate nature of both and the wonderful richness in colours. I feel that it is a time of transition for people and nature, and whereas  autumn presents the end of a cycle, conversely; spring represents the beginning of a cyle and new life. The following poem was inspired by the giant chestnut leaves blowing around, and their beautiful, rich colours and hues, of brown, red, orange, gold and yellow.

Ghost Leaves

Into the road - skeleton bodies of leaves
are relentlessly pressed down;
Their autumnal colours, shrouds
of the season gone by.
A myriad wallpaper, brightening
the tarmac.
Little paper crunches;
Under the tyres.
Pensively, I almost wish that they
had been lovingly collected by some
small child, mother in hand.
Or, that the wind had blown them;
Hurtling them at great speed,
Like little gold mice scuttling across
the field.
But here they lay;
Until the first winter frost,
Their star shapes fading into the road -
Until their fossilisation is complete,
And all that remains are sprinkles of 
browns and gold.

LB