Tag Archives: trees

Lent 12

Bluebells from Craig Nobbs small

There are treasures hidden throughout the earth. The treasure hunters find the pearl and think that is it. But each pearl is part of a string of glories and everything is connected, a mycelium of jewels and precious stones all clamouring to be discovered, their songs rising up through loam and clay longing to reach your hearing and tell you the secrets of a whole universe of love and the glory of God’s name. This is what lies beneath the mulch, and why humankind were made to be tillers of soil and caretakers of the earth.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

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147. Tree Lace (Aesthetics 6)

Tree lace (aesthetics)

When the branches of the trees are all bare like this, and you look upwards into the intricate patterns, it almost seems like the skeletal forms are reaching out for one another in a Sistine Chapel vision that would be worthy of Michelangelo. Connections with art inform our sense of appreciation, and the interlacing of these trees against the blue sky, and probably under the ground too, is also part of the world’s beautiful connecting.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

112. Summer and Winter (Juxtaposition 12)

bunting (juxt)

Bunting, long dead, flapping against the window, and the skeletal branches outside feeling cold and unadorned. Yet it is these latter that will soon be reborn, holding life sleeping within, and the flags that will stay drab and dusty, all they have to look forward to is being packed away until the next celebration. Outside, the green leaves will bedeck the branches.

text and photo © 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

167: Orchard

167 orchard mf mensatic

Sit, come sit, come sit awhile, on tender grass and true. Feel softness bite gently into your thighs from still stone and muddy moss. Picnic here and ponder apples and what forces them to fall, munch them, spit the pips, crunch the peel, savour the green and let the juice run freely inside and out, throat sandwiched between rivulets of life’s nectar. Here no-one is watching, no-one is judging the neatness of your knees, the correctness of your posture, the perfection of your pores, simply sit and eat, ferment in the sunny haze like cider, becoming richer every minute, stewing in your own sap. Come sit, sit awhile, and think on little things. Watch the bugs and sing to snails, dream of childhood tales, of cabbages and kings.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

145: Grove

SONY DSC

 

Ent moot caught in-between groanings, a petrified pause pregnant with soon-to-be sighs and nearly nothings, the circle of trees waits, bent-boughed, towards the centre, knowing the whispers will come. The wisdom is carried in by rustling breezes, softer than wings, truer than words, weaving through pliant leaves and welcoming bowers. Here then, is the place to be found, silent and whole, till the light hits the sacred spot where you sit, when you may smile and give thanks, before heading home.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015