Tuesday, 27 September 2011

The Turning

Fernworthy Reservoir reflects our gratitude for the blue. But it has shrunk during the long days, and as it has pulled inward, old bones have surfaced.

An archaeologist's eye traces the lives of a village: hearths and paths of an old way which has been lost. No, not lost; drowned. Important people needed good water to drink. This village was emptied and flooded. Now we wait for a dry year to admire their stone huts-turned-circles. I find a chunk of clear quartz as big as my hand, offer a song in its stead. Has this rock been held before? These views, balm to wind-whipped minds, were once the for-granted frieze from door to door. It is a mixed place. It is a mixed day. But the sun is giving way and the water will rise again, smoothing sharp corners until all is soft and free as dust.

The turning is tangible. Led by the huge horse chestnut which stands alone, fire, stolen each moment from the sun, creeps across the leaves. The world is still green, but closer in...

...the chlorophyll crown is slipping and we are dripping in gold. Kicking up piles of gold. Laughing and kicking as the leaves rain down and the sun shines its fading hardest.

A girl, behind bars in a floral lane, sits alone in a stone courtyard, feeling the sun warm her back and staring forever into a handful of this last light. Soon she will be gone; sold.

A slow worm of pure gold visits us on its journey into the dark. Losing speed as it loses heat, a flickering tongue explores tiny spaces where it can be still for the long, cold months.

And I, drawing in and seeking the darker spaces, find the quiet voice of poems and paintings, prayers and passion, sounds louder now, and so, this:


My shaggy green coat hangs heavy.
I nod, blind, high over
the scatter of chattering charms
as they try to outshine their own fade.
I am gaunt, untidy,
out of place
in this trove of trinkets.
And then.

And then, in a burst of rapture
that opens, opens my eye,
the late light
blazes gratitude through me
and I am heliotrope,
head held high.
I stare unblinkingly
into the greatest eye of all.
The bees
desert the browning pretties
and come hungry to me.
I suckle them throught the bright times
and as the eye lowers,
flocks replace swarms.
The light is less and less.
I tire.
My head,
heavy once more,
and I lean
until the earth
takes me back.
I dream of my children
as they open:
standing tall, tallest,
holding the gaze,
shining a beacon of bounty.


  1. Beautiful photos Lunar. Imaginative words too. I love the story of the drowned village and I love the statue. I love the sunflower most of all...my new studio's logo features a sunflower :)

  2. Thank you Luna. I'm a bit struck with sunflowers lately, and have been fascinated by heliotropes for a long time. I think I am one.

  3. Such a lovely post Lunar - your words are singing! xx

  4. Ah, thank you Rima. It was a day of song :o).

  5. "and I am heliotrope," Indeed! and you are wonderful Lunar! Thank you for capturing this.

  6. Thank you Ramona. The sun sometimes brings out the best in me, even at this end of the year.

  7. This is gorgeous. You really moved me with your words and pictures. Also, a hug for you. To be the steadfast one in a relationship with illness is a difficult task. You do it with incredible grace. May creativity find you whenever you need it. Namaste.

  8. Such wonderful photos, stunning scenery

  9. Namaste, MSB. And asalaam alaikum. Thank you.
    And to you, too, Ronnie. Can't take any credit for the scenery though :o).

  10. I have found you via Hillside Cottage and Pussycats and Angels..and find Rima here!

    Beautiful images and words.

    Blessings Be.

  11. Hi gz. Great to have you here. Thank you for your kind words and, yes, that Rima turns up when you least expect her :o).
    Had a peek at your blog and Etsy shop - beautiful work. Such lovely, strong colours.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...