JANUARY All is well, Outwardly, Nothing to see, All is still, Winter-tired and bare-branched; But the kernel of growth Has started In the dim womb Of the earth, Shaped out of the pause Between each breath, Each season. The rings in the tree Do not show As they grow, But the silver birch Knows in her heart The passing of the year, The hurricanes and harvests, When to be quiet, And when to dazzle the sun With her head Full of silver and green And light between.
When all the ties are loosened, When all bonds have broken, Then there is a place within Of deepness and darkness, Soft as the furrows Of the purple-brown plough Where the winter shoot of wisdom Takes form, An unborn virtue Which lies behind All action Containing every hue Knowing every sound. This, the mother of all wisdoms No thing unto itself Everything to be Is vast And timeless And as delicate And tender to the early frost As a bud newborn. So, heart Sing forth The song of creation And melt Your winter casing Into Spring , For indeed, All is well.
28 Jan 2008 | 7:58 pm
PRELUDE Shall this be My favourite hour When the mackerel fins Hang Heavenly blue In the last minutes Of daylight, When the day-breath Pauses Incomplete, Yet satisfied, As all activity Settles slowly, Drifting down Through the air – Sounds falling Into silence?
Or this, Shall this Be always In my mind, This brief moment At day-break Caught In accidental waking When the mist Rises Layer upon layer Above islands Of blue hedges, White blackthorn Spearing The pale veil, Vanishing With the tawny owl’s Homeward flight Into brighter Eastern day?
Shall this be The most beloved Moment When the evening light Shines back From western edges Through the hedges Across the lawn Blessing The Silver Birch, Bathing her crimson As the sun grows Overlarge, Unable to contain Itself, Spilling Scarlet streaks Wantonly Into the washed-out sky?
Or this, Shall I choose, This towering ocean of wind Billowing Through the Ilex In blustering waves Of roaring might, Breathing out sea-salt On its damp And monstrous breath, Rioting Through the trees Untethering thoughts, Throwing out The year’s unwanted store Of dead twigs, Leaves, Branches And possessions From outworn hiding places, Showing me My insignificance In the midst Of this immense Natural messenger Of change, Inviting My free fall Into surrender?
28 Jan 2008 | 7:50 pm
POSTLUDE – THE INVISIBLE YEAR Not every month Announces its intentions Aloud, With seasonal colours Or special flavours Ripe for recognition. Some slide in Punctuating The seasonal sentence Like commas,
Hesitant, Ambivalent, Causing A pause for reflection On their intended direction, Not speaking The same language We have become accustomed to – Or think We have a right To expect. These are the moments In the year When the rhythm slows, When the colours Leach out And disappear Into subtle shades And the days Are quietly Concerned with brown And earthy thoughts, Whilst nights Open up new vistas, Landscapes of silver light Drawing us Inwards Into tree-speak And mole-dug mounds Of freshly scented soil. And the season Just gone
Transforms itself Unseen Into a land Of new being, The sap pausing To rise and fall With the turning tide According To nature’s quiet Deliberations And the elements dance According to their whim, Jostling for supremacy. Now is the time Beloved, To keep vigil To listen to the heart beat Invisible to the outer eye Or we miss the moment, The precious moment Of renewal, Impatient as we always are For patterns Made to measure By our memories, Denying The very magic For which we crave.
POSTLUDE – THE INVISIBLE YEAR Not every month Announces its intentions Aloud, With seasonal colours Or special flavours Ripe for recognition. Some slide in Punctuating The seasonal sentence Like commas, Hesitant, Ambivalent, Causing A pause for reflection On their intended direction, Not speaking The same language We have become accustomed to – Or think We have a right To expect. These are the moments In the year When the rhythm slows, When the colours Leach out And disappear Into subtle shades And the days Are quietly Concerned with brown And earthy thoughts, Whilst nights Open up new vistas, Landscapes of silver light Drawing us Inwards Into tree-speak And mole-dug mounds Of freshly scented soil. And the season Just gone
Transforms itself Unseen Into a land Of new being, The sap pausing To rise and fall With the turning tide According To nature’s quiet Deliberations And the elements dance According to their whim, Jostling for supremacy. Now is the time Beloved, To keep vigil To listen to the heart beat Invisible to the outer eye Or we miss the moment, The precious moment Of renewal, Impatient as we always are For patterns Made to measure By our memories, Denying The very magic For which we crave.
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28 Jan 2008 | 7:13 pm
TO CLIP OR NOT TO CLIP ….. so when and how? This morning in early January 2008 with winter sun shining on frost -etched fields, I look at Grey Owl my precious 21 month old Silver Grey ram( Upper Mill Bloodline) showing off his 3rd fleece, newly washed by recent rain. It is a perfect length at approx. 7” with no damage or weathering. The moment to begin his winter clip has arrived. Why now and how has this pattern of twice-yearly clipping come about? (Insert first pic of ram).
The Beech Hill Black Wensleydale flock was founded with Upper Mill stock in late 2000 with much to learn. The following summer I rang everyone with Wensleydales I could find, asking how they sheared their flocks: “What do you mean, how do we shear them – like any other sheep, of course!” (silly woman). “We clip ours by hand…(oops, I am left handed) “We shear ours standing up”. (they are nearly as big as I am). “We turn ours upside down on a mattress, because they kick otherwise as they are bony (not a hope). “We shear ours horizontally……” “Vertically….” (I am now dizzy). “Why don’t you send it all to the Wool Board (not likely, after all that effort, time and money spent on nutrition and care – my first longwool fleeces after Texel Tat).
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8 Jan 2008 | 7:54 pm
Midwinter
So comes December And the burning Of the solstice bonfire, This descending month Of dying embers And in the grey Ashes of its days It is time Gently, To lay down the year Like a new-born child, Wrapping our thoughts In swaddling And our arms Round our own hearts, Rocking Ourselves to sleep, Slipping, Quiet In our accomplishments - Scarcely breathing - Into the dormant rhythm Of the hibernating creatures, Who, In their winterfastness Rest out The remainder of the year, Pillowed On the brown litter Of the autumn leaves, Dreaming Of earthy adventures As the days shorten Into insignificance; The husks Of summer growth Scattered unheeded, Fruits of our earthly year Held deep in our bellies While the wind Whispers sweet nothings To the earth And all the colours Of the land Are drawn Unresisting Into the sky, Which blazes uncontested Bathing The sepia branches In a crimson wash Over the plough And purple shadows While we sink With the setting sun Into nature’s ample lap Warmed By the midwinter flame; The drudgery Of all our grudges Forgotten, All our resentments Consumed, All our appetites Appeased.
