inspired by basho 1

late Spring 1689
Basho and Sora took off
waved goodbye by their friends

He walked 1500 miles,
a little less than I was used to walk in a year.

kusa no to mo sumi kawara yo zo hina no ie

My personal interpretations of the haiku:

my thatched cottage sold:
they put their own stamp on it -
the new owners


drops on fresh leaves
sparkle like diamonds
after the rain

ara toto aoba wakaba no hi no hikari

how solenm!
green leaves, young leaves, and through them
the leaves of the sun

Written on May 19, visiting the shrine in Nikko, a name meaning sunlight.
This being a hokku, the poem pays respect to the placename.

crying

tears of the year
beading up on the green
of next year


first day of the year
thinking longingly of the sun
of next year

imperfections

unexpected beauty
when bugs nibble leaves
lace remains

.

weather

a grove of cedar trees
beset by stormy winds
kept me awake


the river below
sluggishly trundles along
slowed by heavy rains

Unaccountable quietude after weeks of fierce storms causes disquietude. It seems wrong not to hear the loud wind rustle the leaves down to the ground and causing large limbs drop down.

The heavy rains have disappeared and in some parts of the country they have been replaced by the first snow.

contrast

sometimes I lose myself
in the detail but I also
find myself there

the haves and have nots

I was allowed to read Nature for 25 years - then it was abruptly taken away from me.

light of the moon
cleansing dreams of tomorrow's
windswept skies

Waking up in the outdoors - spending day after day half out- half inside, paintbrush in hand one day, weaving my art the next. It was a wonderful life; full of art in action and contemplation. Full of sky, fields, woods and pure aloneness. Days when I saw no human being unless I wanted to. Days when I talked to pheasants, deer, badgers [ they grunt back ], kites and falcons, and the waves of the wheat.

I died my first death when I was returned to the suburbs. Well, hardly suburbs - an age-old Cotswold village on the edge of huge fields. But a village is always full of people who feel they have the right to talk to you.





Now Nature is securely in my head. But I can no longer feel her scent on my skin or hear her sigh or touch her wildness.
Strange that in this day and age to have nothing takes a large fortune. To live a life of modern day deprivation is too expensive these days, because in the UK every wealthy person wants it and there isn't enough wilderness to go round anymore.

sharp intake of breath

inevitably
losing one word per hour
mute within the year

Signs of dementia

I 'lost' the word 'surf' this evening. I had to describe it and ask my husband. Will I lose it again tomorrow?

Strangely enough I could remember 'white horses', like the foam overlying the crest of the incoming wave. Will I have to communicate in poetic phrases when I go in for physiotherapy?
I tell you: 'scared' isn't the word :-)

clouds of perfume

fragrant flowers
a crown of butterflies
perfumed with incense

My image is a picture I took in our summer greenhouse in June:
Phlox diverticulata "Clouds of Pefume": the sweetest scented phlox that I know.

==

juniper turns into genever which means gin in Dutch and can be old or young according to its incubation time.
I grew up in a jenever atmosphere even though I never touched the stuff myself.
Seeing the devastating effects of it close-up, I never even dared breathe the fumes off my father's face for fear of turning into an addict myself. Luckily I seem to be missing the gene for addiction [ other than maybe the one for chocolate ].

For the very reason of fearful memories I never took a photograph of the bush that produced juniper berries. So now here a drawing from memory, which doesn't quite seem to have the powerful effect that a ruthlessly accurate photographic image has.

I'm rambling here.

I chose the flowers of the phlox which also have a terrific perfume and are much safer to sniff even though you can't drink them as an extract or flavouring.

juniper berries
wildly intoxicating
flavouring for gin

dark lake

reflecting only sunshine
the dregs of time are golden
no room for anger

I've been told that I do not have much time left, so I am fast learning to spend it wisely.





















.

Arran

my hands ache to touch
these stones that span the ocean -
a happier birthday

One of those mile-stone birthdays.
My present was a trip to Arran, off the coast of Scotland.
The stone is actually the same as that of the Appalachians,
connected below the Atlantic and at one time above it.
I find it unbelievably exciting that that two continents were so linked.

At present I live on memories, trying to make sense of what I am going through.
This climb stands out in my mind. These views are part of my make-up.