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
Oasis filled with the lain down palm branches of hosanna honking geese and Victorian trees, how thankful we are that you stand rooted here in the middle of town. An island in the traffic, a soft green place in the midst of all the busy-ness, throwing down the gauntlet of stillness, challenging the furore of that must-ing, to do list, A to B and back again that rules our frantic lives. Benches to ponder on. Lakes to cry into. Bracing winds to close our eyes to and then face. Trees to trace with tender fingers, the bark reflecting our creased and cracking skin, telling us we are okay, that we are meant to have folds, and that yes, the ducks are laughing at us and at life, and we can join them if we can still remember how.
© Photo and text Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016