Monthly Archives: August 2015

133: Slope

133 slope

Rolling with deja-vu, Sisyphus-like, upwards, heading for level ground, the incline sets my whole body at a new slant. I look towards the clouds, not the horizon, and the feeling that I might suddenly launch like a gull is palpable. Wheeling to flight, a take-off spring-board runway that fuels hopes and then dashes them, as the limits come suddenly back into view and the legs that won’t carry me are once more in my field of vision.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

132: Trail

132 trail

Am I blazing, as I walk this long forgotten path? Am I on fire for the one I follow and those who will come after? Is this a flaming place, too holy for sandals, where the grass of the field closes over my head and each step is carefully placed for fear of disturbing some serpent, crushing some snail; soil untrod, new and virginal? Am I then, a pioneer, processing out from the centre, a spiral wanderer, heart beating more loudly as the thrum of urban traffic fades away, the edges calling me?

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

131: Wayside

131 roadside

Ragworted roadside, where the vagabonds and the roadkill can lay unnoticed for days, what should we do without your margins? For these borderlands are precious buffer zones, where the lost, straggling and dead-tired keep edge-dweller faith and imagine different routes. Here the mindless zooming is observed by eyes with time to ponder, and great thoughts raise their unsure heads to wave unseen like weeds in the mist.
Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

130: Pond

130 pond

Bulging frog eyes, lidded, the first drops of summer storm splatting on the lily platforms beside us. Till moments ago, a chorus sang advice and well-meaning platitudes all around. Now few remain, all flippers flapping downwards, into more familiar wetness where the world stays still. Above and between the waters, some are happy to be manhandled by excessive weather, bruised by heaven- sent tumbling globes, battered by dewdrops. We are refreshed and moved, renewed and serenely unsteadied, glad to know our own uncertainty, we laugh and croak in the rain.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

129: Depths

129 depths

Down in the turquoise blue I see shapes as I skim across the water like a winged stone. My dragon eyes pick out fossil, skeletal structures in waiting, impatient for flesh to find them. The framework is all given, ready for the making now that it has been glimpsed. For what are we all waiting for but life? And what are we all constructed of, but our inner workings? To be clothed in art, truth and glory, this is our destiny.

And meanwhile, we sit on the seabed, sleeping, on the rock shelf, straining to see beyond the meniscus. We need the mantle to be passed on, a wrapping, ravelling, a new skin, now that we are down to the bare bone.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

128: Glade

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At last I find some calm. A strange peace moves between the trees, like the rustling of being which does not need to announce itself. An undercurrent of claiming rises beside the prostrate trunk. This place, it says, is mine, has always been mine, will always be mine. And the running roots of it take hold of my feet, gently, with blessing, so that I am connected, stilled, known. The acorns patter down from above and the blackberries swell in their ripeness. Here I may breathe.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

127: Shore

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Sit here and shore up, lotus-like, suspended on the cusp of reality, on the tide-line, the meeting place. Open your eyes to the hand full of rasping grains, how many are there? A beach full of Abraham’s descendants, a palm crossed in gold. Hold and desist from your counting, your measuring, your feeble attempts to understand. Simply let go and settle as the sand flows through your fingers, knowing everything that floats here to you on the waves is gifted. Everything is welcome, for a lifetime or a moment, each piece of jetsam has its place and purpose. Sit with open hands, lifted, open mind, waiting, open heart, ready to receive.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

 

126: Expanse

126 milky-way-071015

As the landscape rolls out with red carpet welcome, so vast and so sublime, there is no one thing to draw my gaze but your face. Your face filled with nebulae, dotted with novae, dusted with constellations, formed from the angle of my seeing behind the clefted rock by galaxies, and the sight is dulled and unconsummated, my being too small, my eyes too tiny to take in even one squinted panorama. Such wonder, such enormity (for size is unimportant when it is immeasurable), such an indescribable beauty that nevertheless wrestles in my brain, in my heart for recognition, even after my inner retinae have given up.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

125: Hearth

125 cata

Here is the centrepiece of home, the warm heart hearth where the flames of compassion stay lit in all seasons, dawn to dusk. The curled cat may stretch now and again, glancing outside, the glass holding sunrays and siftings of icing sugar snow at arm’s length like a picture frame. Fire dances, coals burn, feelings zing in the heat, empathy and loving kindness keeping the centre ever still and white, with azure flickering in the depths. Unquenchable, inexhaustible, never-failing love.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

124: Hill

124 hill 1

The view was worth the climb perhaps, but that is not why you are here. For the purpose of reaching heights is to learn how to fall. Fall disgracefully then, Franciscan tumbling over your own free-flowing limbs, nursery rhyme rolling, shrieking with joy-fear, feeling the bumps and stones and collecting straw and goose grass orbs on your woollens and the memory of unfamiliar leafy aromas in your nostrils. Come to a full stop, breathless and delighted, bedecked in Gummidge-gear. Your straw woman cries, “Again, again!” as she heads, child-like, to run up the slope, neither the top nor the bottom able to hold her.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015