Beaded Web

 

Winter’s morning,

Beads of dew linger,

Enhancing the beauty,

Of a spider’s web.

Making it appear,

As if the barbed wire ,

Were adorning itself,

 With a necklace,

Of  the most extraordinary,

Design.

About the photo: Once again I was struck by the unique beauty and skill with which nature re-makes the detritus  or human waste into something other.

Field of Dreams

As I wandered through a friends farm,

I couldn’t help but  wonder,

At this hidden structure,

With its arms,

Bound by twisted twine,

Yet still rising up,

To greet the winter sun,

What was it there for?

What had it signified,

To whom ever built it?

Was it a symbol of protection?

Hope?

Or rejection?

An element designed,

To keep the birds at bay?

Or a child’s fantasy landscape,

Complete with the phrase,

‘If you build it,

They will come,’

What ever it was installed for,

It struck me in that moment,

As a landmark of time,

Hauntingly and unexpectedly,

Beautifully desolate,

Rising up as it was,

Like a forgotten arrow,

Amidst a disused field,

Partitioned  off only,

By a broken fence.

 

Against All Hope

Against all hope,

Life still grows,

Though torn down,

And wrapped in rust,

Tendrils of green,

Brave their unwelcoming,

As life begins,

From within,

Destruction‘s shadow.

About the photo, taken at a friends farm on a mid winters morning, I was struck by the juxtaposition of life amid the ruins.  Atop  a desicrated tree stump, wrapped in rusted barbed wire, a young sapling found the most unlikely of places to grow.

 

Butterfly’s Wings

Nature is a butterfly’s wing.

A constant fluid moment of re-occurring patterns,

Born on the fragilest of creatures.

Each brush of its wing erases life,

And yet we cannot help but long to touch those swirls of color.

Even though,

We know,

Our touch brings death,

To the very creatures we marvel at,

Still,

We touch,

Even revel in our cleverness at being able to do so.

We are such simple beings in comparison.

We lack understandings of the intricacies of life,

 Still we wear our ignorance with pride.

Why do you think that is?

Engraved in Timbered Grace

Origninal Picture by seventhvoice

Under a solidified sequence of years,

Canopied by constellations,

Your stand,

Carrying the mist of finger prints,

Traced into your lines,

By the blind,

Reading   braille,

Searching for messages,

From a long forgotten time.

Embedded in bark,

Rings of  language,

Forever beyond rhyme.

Engraved in timbered grace,

Time drips like sap in this place,

Displacing the shadows of a past,

Too long ago,

Left behind.