Dewy pearls sit smoking on the grass in the misty morning light. Each one catches a piece of dawn’s lavender lustre that smiles through tears. The nearly-Spring trumpets in clusters of crocus, each one a saffron-centred pale amethyst, royal resurrection reminders. Here and there, the pretenders to purple, the soft lilacs of thistle and artichoke, the tips of clover, and the waving flowers of chives, bring their gentle song to the chorus of colour.
There is a pinkly light settling over the waters of the lake, letting us know it is the time for prayer, and we get up and wade out until the heaviness of water makes us start to curl up and fall down, diving without effort into our embryonic selves, able, in the weak light, to float between two worlds, breathe bubbles and watch the birds and butterflies swoop through the holy water.
Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt Composite art by R R Wyatt © used with permission.
Smooth and round, ripples ironed out by the cold, a mirror wasteland. A few white feathers drifting or frozen, quills stuck in the ice, curled and wilting. Surface unspeaking of what lies beneath; secret floes and currents unfazed by the stillness above. Life is going about its business, uptails all in the beak-broken centres, fish and frogs lazing or sleeping, coating themselves in muddy bedclothes till the soporific cold dissolves. Spring will come of course, and the anticipation of greening is everywhere, even in stilted sap and in the bare willow branches, bending over the pool, no leafy tears to cry, all are shed. Time now to rest, to breathe cold mist and sing slow soulful laments over the waters.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Calm expanse, mosquitoes brooding over the water, rippling where the cold Scottish breeze rolls in, my imagination skip-skimming across the dark surface like a stone. Salmon resting in your nooks, and who knows what monsters lie beneath, in the soft muddy dark, or how deep you really are? Swallowed plumb lines and carelessly held fishing rods, a few fallen oars too, no doubt, laying at the bottom in the rocky crevices, like meal remnants in the teeth of the real Leviathan, who breathes in the glittering light and dives in the dusk, the spirit of the loch.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015