Monthly Archives: February 2016

175: Rope Bridge

175 wedhatted ropebridge MF

Dare I take the first step? Dare I lean, let my weight fall forward onto so much air, with only a board between us? Is there enough courage, enough momentum to cross this way? I do not know. Holding the twisted hemp, eyes closed, inching onwards, knowing the two islands must meet somewhere in the middle, over nothing. I keep on and shuffle, mindful of nothing but the movement, and the wind determined to shake my already faltering heart, limp limbs desperate to buckle, tears welling, only grim purpose and angels pushing me now.

Who hung this pendulum, this swaying, swinging cobweb thread? Who fastened each plank and took the leap of faith into calling this a bridge? What is so great about the other side anyway, that I must garner every molecule of bravery and swallow my faith so it pounds in my lungs? And will that other clifftop soon meet me with outstretched hand, coaxing me into its palm, promising me safety? Yes, it was that voice which beckoned me, that soft, still call of love. I slide my petrified feet and move ever closer to home.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from

174: Mill

174 mill Gaborfromhungary MF

The daily creaking crunching grind is wearing me thin, and all I see is the chaff falling to one side, spilling out of the tired circumference of my life. The wheels turn and the weight of the wind pushes these stones around and around this round room. No wonder he said we might be tied around a devilish neck, the stench of dead albatross is all-pervading.

Others have a river running through them, and a bubbling rushing over the wheels of dark wood, a laughing energy rippling and roaring. My world is powered by silent howls and stuck sails going nowhere, nailed down. Must we be flattened and crushed and ground before an ounce of goodness is found in us?

And yet, wait, for, when the yoke is lifted, the flour pours out, sackfuls of abundance, the bread of life in the raw. Is this then, what all the fuss was about? And I was convinced all the circling was a tired nothingness, a zero drawn over and over, a grinding into the dirt. Now I see that heaviness opens the golden ears, and all the burden was borne for birthing.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from

173: Ravine

172 ravine seriousfun on mf

To fall or not to fall, that is the question. Who will catch me but death, unless I float, feathered flowing, toing and froing, on streams of holy spirit air breathed to save me? Can I continue to stand here on the very edge of things, the sharpness of the earth’s deep wound cutting into my feet, calling me downwards into the abyss? Where is God in the presence of these dark jaws? Can I call to him here, even as I steel myself to jump? Does he answer the broken bleeding messes standing here at the top of all things?

Certainty rushes in with the solidity of wind and the sureness of cloven hooves. My God is at the top, at the bottom, and all the way down. Breathing the blessed assurance of this, I step back from the edge, and learn once more to look around me.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from


172: Pasture

172 pasture jasongillman mf

Green fields where we beasts of burden are made down to lie, enforced rest and abundant grazing. Fenced into the fold for safety. A shepherd’s goodly eye roving over us and over every wicked lolling tongue that salivates at the meat hanging from our tired bones.

No more looking over our shoulders with the wearying constancy that broke us down. No more scrounging for the smallest morsels with sallow cheeks and hanging heads. No more seeing the greener grass only from a distance along with hearing the peals of salacious laughter at our expense, and the clink of callous crystal.

Now our heads bow low to nuzzle the soft lush verdant blades, sharp sweetness, the viriditas spread by chewing, swallowing, savouring the goodness, green tongues long and damp with juice. Now we can stop having eyes in the back of our heads and simply be, lambs in his presence, wool growing wild and curly, frolicking in the frequent sunlight; dappled by the dawn of grace.


© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from


171: Glacier

171 John Lindsay Glacier mf  45 Glacier Bay May 2015

Slowly then, but surely, taking the plunge millimetres at a time, unstoppable gargantuan ice giant floeing out to sea. I too, move by increments, stubborn and cold, moving only because there is no going back. But wherever we travel or how slowly, is all beyond our control, and ice ages and global warmings will have us at their mercy at some point, and then again, no doubt, in an aeon or two.

Frozen beauty, cast in the image of your maker, the rain’s patterns swirling in the deep set glass, compacted by the weight of a billion snowflakes. A sloping tidal avalanche, advancing invisibly, made up of so many tiny falls, cascading crystals crowded together for cold, the snowy serendipity encroaching now on all around it.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from by johnlindsay

170: Moat

Photo by Jusben on

A ring around the Roses, river going nowhere, ouroboros snaking its way back to the start, over and over again. Goldfish asking, “Haven’t we been here before?” and “Are we nearly there yet?” like children in the back seat. Defence is the best offence, they say, full of eels and pike, slippery slopes and spiked jaws, ready to snap into action. Steep sides and woebetide anyone who clambers down in the drunken dark, larking for a swim and a kiss with the deep.

But what really stands between the inner sanctum and the world, the only boundary, the thinnest skin, the softest veil? A curtain of water, swirling thoughts and eddying pretences. And even if we drained you, wouldn’t we just be staring disappointedly into a muddy mire, fins faintly flapping here and there? Best you carry on going in circles then, and let the lilies float, remembering what is at stake and using the drawbridge when needs must.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016


169: Car Park/Parking Lot

169 car park mf pippalou

Did we then, pave over Paradise, lost to us now? The concrete jungle grew so fast, who knew that it would spread, disease-like, steamrollering every green thing in its way? Well, here you are, flat and dull and painted with your borderlines, your cartoon people and wheelchairs, all white and flaking. Conveniently maintained and close, with trees strategically tubbed in unusable corners, rootballs festering.

But stand still here, and counterpointing the slamming of car doors, the loading and unloading, there is a whispering, a conferring, a conspiracy of growing things. They will rise up unheeded through the false rock, breaking apart the conglomerate, encroaching on your edges. They will not be thwarted, but spread their dandelion leaves and their sap-song along every unguarded crack in what is after all only surface, conquerors once more, earth regained.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from

168: Ruin

ruin roganjosh mf

The signs of weathering wear and tempest tear are running deeper every year, like fingernail trails in sandstone, or crow’s footprints leaving their mark on sagging skin. Here is where you make the choice: to tumble gracefully in flowing cotton, or attempt to girdle every last nuance of youth with rope and new mortar, plastering it all back together again. Now is when you decide whether to let yourself laugh or keep taut, narrowing your eyes at Father Time.

Flowers grow within and whether they are blooms or weeds depends on how you view them. I urge you, let the winds come and the rains fall, and dance in both, paying no heed to what crumbles. Do not be tight-lipped, casting stones all about you, never thinking for a moment it might be you who is falling apart.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from


167: Orchard

167 orchard mf mensatic

Sit, come sit, come sit awhile, on tender grass and true. Feel softness bite gently into your thighs from still stone and muddy moss. Picnic here and ponder apples and what forces them to fall, munch them, spit the pips, crunch the peel, savour the green and let the juice run freely inside and out, throat sandwiched between rivulets of life’s nectar. Here no-one is watching, no-one is judging the neatness of your knees, the correctness of your posture, the perfection of your pores, simply sit and eat, ferment in the sunny haze like cider, becoming richer every minute, stewing in your own sap. Come sit, sit awhile, and think on little things. Watch the bugs and sing to snails, dream of childhood tales, of cabbages and kings.


© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from

166: Barbed Wire

166 barbed wire pippalou mf

Hostile needling presence, pieces of fleece trailing in the breeze, caught on your claws, like piked heads to warn those straying from the flock. Borders with spikes to grab at intruders, a pointed rebuff. Your thorns are coarse and unyielding, steel roses will not grow between them, only a knotted, twisted metal yarn, thickening the guarded plot.

Is this door closed to us, then, even though both sides seem the same? Miles of dusty nothing separated by an unmanned, unmanning fence. Shall we seek the gate, the way, the five barred gate and return to the fold, or climb, undeterred, ragged-trousered daring, tumbling head-first, talons enmeshed in foolish flesh, sheep-like stupidity undaunted, till we lay bleeding and breathless, panting on the desert floor, looking back to where we came from and wondering at the greenness of the grass?

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from