Tag Archives: spring

50. Buds (potential)

50-buds-potential

The magnolia tree in our garden started growing this Spring’s buds in November. It does that, holds everything inside. The ones that dared to start opening during the winter have gone brown on the inside, killed by frost and impatience. But most of them have held on, waiting for the right time to bloom, and knowing still, that it is not yet here. But bloom they will, for two short weeks, in the earliest warmth, and those flowers will be stunningly beautiful. I wonder if they know that.

Perhaps, for them, held closed, zipped up for so long, sensing those brave enough to open have died, they feel the time will never come for their freedom. Perhaps their hope is waning now. But from outside, where the seeing is easier, we can look at them and tell they are going to be flowers, that all that constricted energy will burst out soon in a heartachingly exquisite display of pale pink.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

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36. Primroses (hope)

36-primroses

Spring is beginning to show its face, albeit a little tentatively, knowing that February can hold a few wintry surprises yet. The brightness of the yellow butter curls seems so out of place in the still half-dead garden that it always surprises me. If nature can be so bold with its colours, and so brave in its unfurling, maybe there is hope for even the shyest of us, or for those of us tucked away under the duvet of sickness.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

184: Avenue

184 jusben MF avenue

Groping in the dark I open those inner eyes and find myself sat in showers of palest pink, the cherry blossom fulsome falling. The petals sing a swirling song of subtle hue, and I, so used to sitting, to only watching, must rise and dance with them, must search out the love that is calling me.

So I run, enabled here, and head towards the light, which may send me snow blind, the brightness is so soft and sheer. And I stand and answer you, and wonder where you are to be found, stretching my eager neck, and I ask why I have been processed out, the fragrance of buds crushed by my god-sped heels enveloping my waiting. Yet more waiting, Lord? And then I hear a bright whisper, that the way out is to love, to always love, to be love, including towards the sickly, beyond weary bed-huddled form to which I now return.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

153: Boating Lake

frozen lake 153

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