From the Gardens to the Rocks

American Swamp Magnolia (Magnolia glauca); Wild Hop (Ptelia trifoliata); Silver Poplar (Abele) DATE 1864

Silver Birch

My life is spent,

Silver and gold worthless now.

Felled as logs for the burning.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Still young as I was,

Man decided my time had come

Strong branches held him while his brutal saw performed the execution.

Can you hear the weeping of the anemones Or the eulogy from the robin?

Is the yew tree sighing as it stands in the graveyard where my roots are buried?

Will I be born again, the Dainty Lady of the Woods, from this barren stump?

Or are my winged children even now waiting unborn in the cold earth.

Could it be that I shall know a resurrection?

No longer will my music be that of the Anemoi, the winds through my branches.

Instead, my wood transformed becomes Apollo's lyre and new music playing for Aions.

Conversation

A beautiful conversation we had this morning my friend and I. Baroque and lyrical, native and English, a language of warbles and trills.

He sings these melodies solo, in a series of motifs both presto and allegro. But since there's no score to be read by me, I must learn this new language by ear.

Even though I cannot see him, I know that he sees me and listens patiently. Whilst in vain I try to imitate the patterns of his songs.

He sings for joy at Spring's return and my heart's filled with hope. Through this intimate sharing of call and response, Robin and I converse.

Rock Garden

Here in this tranquil space

I contemplate…

The sound of water trickling gently down tiers of terracotta pots,

the scent of lavender and roses on the gentle breeze, the warmth of the sun on my face under a clear blue sky,

the tiny alpines planted amongst dry stones

so varied in texture and colour.

I see, I listen, I smell, I touch.

I breathe slowly and gently.

I marvel and am thankful.

My soul rests and is refreshed.