Cracked - Ice

Feeling warm and comfortable in our favourite Dumfries & Galloway lodge, we looked out on to the wintry landscape that surrounded us. It was mid-morning and the temperature was slowly rising as weak sunshine was breaking through grey cloud. Earlier, at -7 degrees, we decided to stay put and have a restful day. Tomorrow’s weather sounded less severe. I had to venture outside. My birdfeeders needed filling and a breath of fresh air would be welcome, even icy air. Wrapped up, wellington boots on and bird seed to hand, I stepped outside, calling back to say that the veranda was slippy. Not that my husband was coming outside with me, too risky. Ice on the steps cracked beneath my feet. It was clear and shiny where water had dripped from the edge of the roof. I was extra careful. The car was iced over, sheltered under trees and away from any sunlight. A couple of steps and I was on the grass, feeling safe with a crisp crunch of frost beneath my feet. The bird feeders were dotted about, some on a tree, others half hidden in a well-established rhododendron. For reasons I couldn’t work out, the birds were ignoring the fat balls in preference for the seed mixture. On previous visits it had often been the other way round. I went to the tree last, minding my gloved fingers over the cracked bit of branch as I reached a little higher to the seed holder. Job done, I wandered along to the gate to see if any horses were in the meadow on the other side. They were further up, towards the hill and just a solitary pheasant nodded along. How beautiful they are, so colourful. Turning back towards the lodge, I walked round to where a narrow stream trickled towards a reed bed and warned the neighbourhood cat to leave ‘my’ birds alone. Nearby, a few robins were squabbling and hopping about, much to my amusement. Disturbed by my presence, they took flight into the pine trees. They made me smile and raised my heavy heart. Following an emergency incident at frozen water in Solihull, some children had fallen through the ice. They were rescued, but three of them later died. So sad. They were probably just playing and didn’t realise what danger they were in. Children. Christmas time. Heartbreaking.

My Haiku,

Children playing out,
Fun in the winter landscape
Until the ice cracked.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Photo is the view from the lodge.

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Clouds - When the Storm Clouds Gather

Living over a Blackpool Promenade pub in the mid-sixties was wonderful and the ever-changing views from the front windows never lost their fascination for any of us. My mother, when she wasn’t busy, sat in the bay window of our living room, often accompanied by my nanna, a frequent visitor.  My father kept a pair of binoculars on the window sill and liked to look at the horizon on a clear day.

I sat with my mother one sunny day, nothing special, just watching holiday-makers on the sands. It was full of deck-chairs, wind-breakers and families having fun.

“They will be coming off the beach in a minute.”  I remember my mother saying. She told me to look at the clouds coming in with the tide, how they were darkening. The horizon had vanished into the blur of grey and dusky pink that was moving closer until it covered the sun and what was left of blue sky. A rumble of thunder was followed by huge raindrops. People on the beach made haste to gather their belongings and make a run for shelter. Some dashed under South Pier, but they would have to move again as the tide came in. Mum and I watched the lightning fill the sky like electric charges breaking the clouds, and the rain, now heavy, sweeping across the promenade, not a soul in sight.

Many years later I recognised the same cloud formation. We were having a family holiday in Pembrokeshire, my husband and I with our two young children. Between Saundersfoot and Amroth there is a lovely stretch of beach and rock pools at Wiseman’s Bridge, so called because of the small, stone built bridge over the stream of fresh water filtering from the land to the sea. There were toilets nearby, a shop for ice creams and always somewhere to park. The only down-side was clambering over unstable rocks to get on to the beach or down the concrete path on the other side of the bridge carrying picnic, towels, fishing nets, buckets and spades and our beach tent. My husband and I would struggle to feed the flexible poles through the correct channels in the beach tent, especially if it was breezy, but when it was finished and anchored with rocks, it was perfect. I’m sure modern day versions are simpler, but those days are gone. We were all in or close to the tent, tucking into our picnic when I noticed the clouds on the horizon and wondered how long we had before the rain would arrive. Should we pack up and go to the car taking into account getting across the rocks again, or all four of us huddle together in the tent with the open side fully zipped up? I’ve got a feeling that we did both, on separate occasions. I’ll have to ask the kids.

It’s lovely to lie back on the ground and watch the sky on a summer’s day. Imagine being up there, floating on one of those fluffy, feathery, cotton-wool clouds, just resting.

Looking down on clouds is an enchanting sight, too. Natural beauty.

 

Two choices of poem,

 

Dylan Thomas

 

Shall gods be said to thump the clouds
When clouds are cursed by thunder,
Be said to weep when weather howls?
Shall rainbows be their tunics' colour?

When it is rain where are the gods?
Shall it be said they sprinkle water
From garden cans, or free the floods?

Shall it be said that, venuswise,
An old god's dugs are pressed and pricked,
The wet night scolds me like a nurse?

It shall be said that gods are stone.
Shall a dropped stone drum on the ground,
Flung gravel chime? Let the stones speak
With tongues that talk all tongues.

 

 

and Emily Dickinson

     The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

     A travelling flake of snow

     Across a barn or through a rut

     Debates if it will go.

 

    A narrow wind complains all day

    How some one treated him;

    Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

    Without her diadem.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Skin

Skin

 

Skin is motes of dust.

Once knew life. Falls, like snow.

 

Skin turned to dry rind.

Stiff scales, no give. Cracked hard hide.

 

Skin met the sun’s stroke

And glowed red then oozed and peeled.

 

Skin was warm and soft,

A shield of flesh wrapped round form.

 

Skin was blushed with blood

At the hot whip of a glance.

 

Skin was formed deep in

Layers, to shift, float, find the light.

 

Skin is the thin film

Stream, not to be stepped in twice.

 

 

Heather Taylor

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