Tag Archives: cloister

Landscape of Love: Drawbridge

drawbridge moosline Pixabay door-1022148_1280

Today the word is barricade. The chains will groan and gripe as the links grind against one another, but the bridge will still rise and leave behind a gaping unassailable leap. Under the no-longer-there- road, the fish will swim to the cool shadow and find it gone, moving on, back to the edges and the reed banks further along. Perhaps those eyeing up our castle will now not relish a siege and also pass on through. We are safe inside, and the stores are plentiful. But later, when the winter comes, and the moat freezes, shall we find comfort in these dark stones? Shall our father give us bread instead? Mightn’t we still venture out into the daylight atop the towers, blinking and ready for renewal? Hope leaves its seeds everywhere, and life grows through cracks in rock. Light will always be waiting to return, and when we have had our fill of self and solitude, the old oak timbers may crash back down, and the world become once more our cloister.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

N.B. Once a week I will be returning to The Landscape of Love as a break from the Veil of Tears which can be quite a tough read (and write!) And hopefully to help keep my poetic prose flowing.


160: Walled Garden




Despite being closed off from the world, this garden is a site of the deepest sharing, soul to soul in silence. A place for the holy holding of hands, of mutual smiles and locked gazes. Romance and contemplation find a home here, senses drifting through the spears of lavender and lost in the hypnotic trickle of the fountain, a lion’s mouth dribbling into a stone basin.

It may be sheltered from the worst winds, but if you sit on this bench, shift your haunches back into the wood and close your eyes, you can still smell the ozone as it breezes in from the ocean a half mile away. Sea spray finds its way here, up a long and sandy track edged by waving grasses, settling on the face of any still stranger like the softest sting of snowflakes or an unexpected barrage of kisses.

A haven then, a sanctuary, a cloistered place out of the world’s way, where you are held firmly by oaken hands and your feet touch ground made sacred by the removal of sandals, beach grains shaken in a pile to one side, soles communing with cool earth.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016