Tag 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!

 

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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 92: Dual Carriageway

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You going to A and I to B, and each in a rush to be at the other’s leaving. Do we storm like juggernauts over the road, juddering the macadam crust? Or like snails, softly gliding over shell, brushing against mollusc flesh, one of us raising our shell politely whilst the other tiptoes its tyres upside-down along the risky underneath? Do we trouble to see the world upside down for the sake of another’s easy passage, or only deal with the surface? Is what stands beside us a blur, whirring past, gone before it’s noticed, faster than the speed of retina? Or do we make sure to smell the blooms and cock our heads to the buzzing within them, catching glimpses of glory and blue-tailed flies?

Text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Landscape of Love 90: Circus

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The plates spin and the sweat beads on the brow under the harsh yet inadequate lighting. The speed of each circle on its axis all within a greater ring, enclosed and concentrated, the fear, the tension, the potential for ceramic disaster feeds contagion, and the audience all hold plastic chair edges with clammy curled fingers. To one side of this manufactured solar system, something star-like catches my eye, bright Middle Eastern warmth clothed in white. Up, out of my seat, flown to in outrageous love and melded with, heart to heart. Everything else flung to the purgatory of periphery. Here is the centrifugal force pinpointed, centred, begun. Here is the life-changing, heart singing, joy-giver. Here is the main attraction and the ringmaster, in whom all things hold together. Knock those plates flying! Come as partying Greeks and dash them to the ground! Spin and struggle and juggle no more! Hold fast only to the one thing that matters and be love, oh be love!

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay

 

Landscape of Love: Folly

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An act of madness in the garden, abrupt and incongruent. Marble eccentricity erupting from the ground, an overflow from the sewers of sanity. Freedom from the Victorian constricted neatness, the sculpted hedges, the perfect maze, an escape from the yellow wallpaper and the flock velvet. This icon of silliness, standing in proud dilapidation, a stone handlebar moustache from another age, somewhere to stop and have tea with a hatter and ponder the wonders of bygone bonkersness and an upside down kingdom, where disciples are found in trees and saviours in stables.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from Pixabay