Category Archives: Landscape of Love

Landscape of Love 102: Adventure Playground

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“Scope for imagination” a-plenty: walking planks and setting sail, exploring and climbing high, lost in another world the grown-ups cannot enter, having long forgotten the password. Here are lost boys and foundling girls, fairies and sprites, caught in caverns and towers. Up and down, round and back, sliding and swinging through air woven thick with fantasy. Dragons and heroes abound, orangutans swing and sing, everyone out of breath and zinging with fun. Mountains of make-believe, the sacred ground of play, too holy for sandals. You must be this short, to enjoy the ride.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

NEW BOOK OUT SOON! I’ve been a bit quieter than normal folks, preparing my book “Whale Song: Choosing Life with Jonah” – launching this month. More soon!

 

Landscape of Love 101: Moonscape

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This faraway sea, tranquilly free from water, sits in concave solitude. Without waves and breakers it may do as it pleases, gazing out at the green and the good. Milky marble, Moody’s eye, always revolving in its dark socket and piercing the gloom, never fully silver in truth. Footprints from giant steps still ingrained in unforgiving dust that no breeze sees fit to stir. All breath long gone and flags unfluttering, undecayed. Perhaps it is this unchanged beauty pulling at our tides that makes us long for mooned monotony and perfect glowing skin, ignorant as we are that close to, our spectral sister still suffers the acne of ancient craters and pits, her beauty unmarred by her blemishes, scarred satellite silently singing to the wolves.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love 100: Oasis

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Sahara stopover, Gobi getaway, motorway mirage, where the imaginary camels drink their fill, until, running, stumbling upon the reality of dunes we also claim the resting place. Time stops, the news has no outlet here, the world is, albeit for a short while, just you and the sand, you and the cool water. And in the quiet, under the palm trees, the eternity of desert seems a long way off. There is a different way to travel, to drift, and the softest of breezes kicks around in your hair, laughing.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love 99: Botanical Gardens (at Kew)

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Living museum, library of seeds, fruit so exotic climbing, pods forming, orchids blooming. Rainforest fronds frolic, unfurling against a glass ceiling that concentrates our puny sunshine into tropical beams. Horticultural multicultural magnificence. Immigrants thrive here, hothoused and cossetted, whilst outside the natives wave lavender lances and mint spears in the fresh English air. Tourists buzz in and out of the flowers, seeing and believing that all can live happily together in tempered, temperature-controlled glass houses and luscious lawns, if all stones are used only for drainage, and writing in the sand, never, ever, for throwing.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love 98: Poppy Field

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Yellow bricks just visible if you stand and look at your ruby boots, rapidly disappearing now under the blanket of snow that swirls in flurried flakes, mini-cyclones like the one that brought you here, so long ago. And the way is lost now and the cold soporific sleeting sways itself down in tiny feathered hammocks brushing your weary skin. Sleep is called for, and a soft silent space, where dreams may dare to shine rays into reposing forms. The red softened to pink blooms by tears, by failing strength, and slowly, one by one, we fall down and are covered.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Artwork by and © Bev Wilson, used with permission.

 

Landscape of Love 97: Churchyard

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Ancient of Days, yew circles the holy ground and stands sacred guard. Her hollowness disguises fullness, and even her dank rotten places are teeming with abundant life; jewelled scarabs and luminescent fungi adorn the lightning wounds and tend the darkness. Toothed fort of the dead, domino headstones re-etched by lichen look ready to fall after centuries of marking mounds of mourning. And life, undeterred, springs up in grasses and buttercups, golden grails full of dew, bluebells ringing out the hours, a carpet of prayer covering the crypt.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

Landscape of Love 96: Well

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Here is our shortcut to the underswell, our drawing up of the sweet holy water, the bucket swaying seductively with its load of comely coolness. And the holy man wipes the sweat from his forehead and sits half shaded, so we cannot quite make out his face, as he asks for someone else to serve him. We sashay over, unabashed, until meeting those thirsty eyes makes an honest woman of us. And all of us fall at those feet, pour out our fragrance, weep on them, dry the sweet sinless flesh with our dusty hair, and run to fetch clean, pure water, that we both offer up and drink down, and which sets us free from all unholy desires. We no longer hold our chin up, but level, no longer sink into the sand in shame, but see our worth. We leave our brazen boldness behind and seek to be desired differently, stumbling in our haste to tell of this treasure, thirst slaked by meeting the Truth face to face.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love 95: Catacombs

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Cocooned in leaves, wrapped like fresh caught fish, woven into casings by the zig zag zipped silken spinnings of grace, here we curl up and die, and wait for new life. Here we lie and dream of spacious places where our feet will soon be set, whilst the world sees only a fresco of shallow caves, grave in their claustrophobic smallness. Inside, our wings form and we fly, my brothers, my sisters, we fly!

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love 94: Shoreline

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Weary feet sinking into dark demerara sand, and the sweetness pushes up between my toes. Waves crashing and rolling unstoppably to kiss where my legs and ankles meet, soaking the joining places. Wind whispers stored in abundance in the emptiness of scattered hells, softly saying, “the sea, the sea,” remembering all the forgotten words of Iris and all the writers who have stood here before and listened. And you, dearest you, cross legged a little way back, cooking breakfast on the brazier, looking over to where I am. The smile that breaks into dawning across your face, lights up the sky, and catches the dull ache of my heart in your net, lifting it, like the seagull suddenly caught above us in a thermal of grace.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

Landscape of Love 93: Volcano

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No matter how wet the firewood, how damp the kindling, one word from the glowing prophet and water itself will catch alight around your holy altar! The Lord’s lava flowing from the places where the ground opens up under your unsandalled feet, the cracks ‘neath crucifixion’s fulcrum filling to the brim stone with sulphurous spewing holy raging song that cascades up hills and down dales making a mockery of the highs and lows we spend so much time measuring.

All this time we had the power streaming beneath us, and we did not know. And as the bones of Ba’al’s believers rattle in a bleached latticed path before us, we can walk over molten earth and not be burned, the scorched and scarred lands are not our destination, for we head towards waters of love, even as we have, ourselves, become flame.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay