As the centre of my own universe, I’ve been observing myself of late and as is often the case in my literary world, am making metaphors and poetry as I feel into my changing moods and feel them reflected in the world around me. So here are 2 poems, written several days apart this week, on similar themes:
There’s death in my garden today;
plants that didn’t survive the leeching sun;
grass turned into thousands of yellow needles, ready to spurn and spike, deflecting me from sprawling.
Yet everything has its season;
the sun brought drought and heat, as the water evaporated from the earth;
only to be rained upon and replenished.
So now there’s flower and fruit in this leafy land;
a stunning abundance of beauty, ripening and full;
it’s a surprising, forgotten reminder, that after days & days of dry, I always experience an oasis.
And I have to capture it on camera;
dazzled by the multitude of colours amongst the dry decay;
whilst seeing the variety of vibrant greens on display in this sensual scene.
I share all this in stereo, sitting on a shaded step;
there’s a cat lying either side of me, their guardian;
so they’re snaking and squirming their joie de vivre, as I smile, inside out.
In my metaphorical brain, I see how what’s around me, reflects me;
I’ve emerged from a long drought of exhaustion & illness;
all the time still breathing and doing, but dragging my feet in the dust.
As a Manifestor, my energy rises high and falls low with the momentum of waves;
and in the last few weeks, it has calmly climbed and come home; now pulsing with positivity, my brain with instinctive, creative clarity…
Back in my sacred garden, Buddha looks on from his spot in the shade;
Magnificent in his aura of aged Kintsukuroi;
knowing, accepting, rejoicing.
So… the grapes just outside my door are ripening… I’ve just floated out of a yoga class, and I’ve come over all poetical:
My garden is revelling in the rain;
since being scorched by the sun;
and now sated by a divine monsoon…
Softly growing towards autumn;
soaking up the sky’s offerings;
building them to blossom into burgeoning flower and fruit…
My very own Mediterranean terrain;
here in the middle of seasonal England;
facing south and making life…
And the sun has now disappeared without saying good bye, having returned to her languorous chaise longue beyond the clouds.
Peachey Letters 