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.
The cool gold creeps its way across the grass and stone. The dew sparkles, the shadows recede, for they too, must obey the rules of death and resurrection, now fading and passing out to let in the sun. The light seems weak at first, but this is only the sweet gentleness that kisses the world awake and nudges at the edges of the shore, so that everything remembers how to glisten in new mercies before the whole tide comes rolling in.
Soft light breaks into an outpouring of bright light that cannot help but give the best and whole of itself: the sky by noon blindingly adazzle; the ground seared by the seal of golden approval, that having caressed every blade of grass awake, now deluges its heart of gold upon the entire garden. No wonder Mary, who knew him so well, seeing him coronaed in brightness, thought him first a gardener.
Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt Photo from Pixabay
First light is soft and cool across the glade, and the long grass lying like hair shimmers with its dappling of dewdrops. I am sitting cross-legged and damp, but in the corner of my sight you appear, as if purposed, a doe in the dawn, discerning my presence and deciding it is safe for us to watch one another. The wind rustles across the greening, like breath across a harmonica, and the susurration hums in my Spirit. I close my eyes.
At the end of the day I stand, still as a watching stag on the rise, antlers aglow, the golden day-death painting one side of my motionless calm. I look to the last rays, bathed in your light, slightly lift my head to smell the sky burnt with colour. What a long way we have come, from one side of the horizon to the other, and always the lush grass with us. I close my eyes.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015