This month’s photo prompt has been provided by Willow Willers.
One
Small sign
India
Celebrating
Painted hands dancing
Temple sounds in the air
Sweet spice filled markets, crowded
Smiling faces wait with greeting
Namaste, sunshine will bless your day
Painted hands take me back to India…
Image from Pinterest
The blue hour, when colours blend
Creating a strange place
Unknowable
Yet the mind holds on to something known
Between the space, we call day and night
Not awake, nor sleeping
Running from the dream maker
Towards daybreak
Sunlight full of promise
If only that one nagging thought
Did not remain
What did I touch?
In that moment between
That my heart remembers
Is it something lost to all of us?
On those frequent occasions when my brain takes a hike and I am looking around my office for inspiration, I often find myself studying the items on my desk.
One of these is an artificial bonsai tree, although you have to look carefully to realise this. It is a white pine, brought from a specialist company called Bloom. They make the most amazing silk flowers and the occasional artificial tree, and the minute I saw it, I knew I had to treat myself. It is stunningly life-like and beautifully made.
You wouldn’t think that a dyed in the wool bonsai enthusiast would give such a thing house room, but it appealed to me simply because it cannot die. It will always remain perfect no matter the weather, never lose it‘s leaves in the autumn, and I love it.
I cannot help but see the differences between this tree and the real ones just outside my window, and not just the obvious differences, like the time of the year. The makers have done their best, but the bark is just a little too smooth. There are no cracks or crevices in the bark for all the tiny spiders to live in, a necessary part of any healthy tree, for they control other nastier insects.
There is no living collection of mosses and lichen around the base of the trunk either, something all of my other trees have, and although this artificial tree keeps me company all through the year, when all the others are sleeping, their leaves just a memory, it cannot change my feelings for my babies.
The ones that are so old and have pride of place in my yard, and the ones that are still finding their way to maturity. Then there are the ones I grew from seed that may not ever amount to much in my lifetime, for it takes years to become an established bonsai. These are special to me, even if they don’t look quite right yet.
I think that growing anything, whether in a pot or in your garden, is a lot like writing. Until you know what you are doing, what you produce will be just a shadow of what it could be. And like a garden, your words need tender loving care too. Prune too hard, or badly, there are a million ways to ruin what is fragile at best and the results will be disappointing…
If I am all you have, I pity you
I cannot bring you flowers, joy
The happiness you need
Does not exist in my world
I can only love you from a distance
You need more, someone to hold
To touch, to love
You must let go of me now
Remove your nuns’ habit
Re-join the world…
Image by Carol J Forrester
An abandoned garage
A temple to youth, their artistry
Dark painted columns speak of moments past
The hissing sound of spray cans
Mingled with laughter
Has anyone noticed it’s a place of two halves?
Beautifully rounded columns on the left
Lit, not by the distant window
On the right, the columns are in shadow
A lonely figure of a man walking through
His gait seems heavy
He’s searching for something in the graffiti
A message from a lost sweetheart
Her initial plain to see, a large B
Was she here, did she leave more to be found?
A reason for leaving.
Continuing his slow walk
her beautiful face shining behind him
The reason for the light, his heart heavy
Her message has gone unnoticed…
Image by Jaye Marie
Image by Pixabay.com
