loss

The air hangs heavy with  silence, pressing its leaden weight through darkening rooms. All warmth has leached away, leaving a hairline crack through which has seeped the sadness of lost memories; and a glint of silver on once familiar skin.

Shadows move through unguarded doorways; deepening as days stretch to night, and the slow tick of the clock marks the passing hours.... and I, curled catlike under heavy quilts, taste the bitter taint of words as yet unspoken; as the creeping chill of empty sheets numbs me to the core.

Etched on skin

 Red scars now faded with time to silver; meander like contours across my body. They map the years of openings and re openings; of harsh lights, soft voices and blue scrubs. The sting of anaesthetic and the hand of a stranger; as tubes pushed deep into veins, and sutures tugged at soft flesh. 

In the aftermath, when poisons ceased to seep into every cell, and syringes no longer a part of daily routine; I began to reclaim this tired body moulded by circumstance and surgeon's scalpel; becoming familiar with new curves and old wounds. 

Five years from the cold realisation of a hard lump under probing fingertips; I have taken control - etching upon skin a design of my own choosing, to tame both scars and memories; the sting of needle and ink a mere ghost of what has already been.

 A lotus now blooms along my spine, with hamsa to ward off further ills... realigning chakras and letting in light once more..... A fitting ending to a dark episode.

Cold snap

Jack Frost has sent his icy breath curling round the garden; setting grass in stiff spikes, and icing every hollow. Filigree patterns etched on each leaf and frond hold their own delicate beauty; whilst the ghosts of spiders webs hang still in shadowed corners; frozen mid decay.

All is quiet and still; the birds still roosted in litchen lined nests, or perched on power lines; feathers plumped against the cold.

A sudden flurry upsets the peace, as reluctant cats tumbling into the morning air, breathe soft mist and startle as paws contract on cold flagstone; causing a flexing of feet and mad scrabble to retreat back into the warm......

.....and I, with cheeks pinched and joints slowly stiffening ; swathe myself in cashmere wraps and woollen mittens, ready to step into half light of a day not quite begun, to embark upon the early morning commute.

Out with the old

Last night, the wind howled round the house like a dragon unleashed; chasing away cobwebs and the final vestiges of an old year fraught with the destructive forces of a raging sea. 
We inside, who battened down the hatches to shelter in warm darkness; listened to rain lashing against the panes; cleansing and purifying our groaning timbers that have held strong through tempest's eye.

Now is a time for calm; to clear away the debris of this storm just fled, leaving a mere ghost of itself in the brittle leaves haphazardly scattered on rain soaked lawn; and splinters of heartwood  embedded in soft flesh. 
 We will once more fill the rooms with soft light and tend to smarting wounds; a little more wary, yet ready to brave the next wave that is sure to break.

Tipping point

Fumbling fingers dial a number engrained since early childhood; and a voice I don't recognise as my own asks for an assistance seen in countless TV dramas; only this is our drama, unexpected, frightening.... A tipping point on an adjusted scale.

There is a fine balance we seek, as we juggle the complexity of our lives to avoid obvious stumbling points; yet all the while, unseen forces gather at the margins, silent; waiting for that perfect moment to send  the bar plummeting , the balls tumbling and rolling round the floor. As I dialled, I felt that balance tip; shifting a load so carefully spread, my shoulders hung heavy with the sudden weight of it. For an instant, I stumbled; allowing the balls to slowly roll to the furthest reaches; unable to gather the momentum to set them spinning through the air ; shifting the weight back to that elusive midpoint. 

Life rumbles on, as it must, and the scattered pieces have been retrieved to be set spinning once more. There is less weight pressing down upon my shoulders, yet that elusive midpoint evades us still...... the bar forever resting one degree above tipping point, as we inch our way back to normality once more. 

The ties that bind

Like migrating birds we took flight, and journeyed South to our childhood home for an organic gathering; sparked by a landmark birthday, a torrent of to-ing and fro-ing of messages via the web, and a whistle stop visit from a sibling in the states. 

Like all good gatherings, it revolved around food; so we arrived laden with tasty morsels, ready to reminisce and weave our tales over the debris of a drawn out meal. 

There is a warm sense of comfort in stepping through a familiar threshold to be enfolded in the hustle and bustle of three generations reconnecting after time apart. The flurry of hugs, greetings and gentle ribbing, tightening the ties that bind us together once more.

Like every family, we soon fell into our pre-ordained groupings, honed over years of shared events. Our not so small sons, delighted to have cousins to play with, caused gentle mischief before settling down to bragging rights and an old box of Lego. Whilst the eldest, now tall men towering above us all, yet still retaining,with impish grins and tales of risky exploits, some small trace of the small boys they once were; conversed with an ease that comes with youth....  

...and we, the older generations, sat side by side; balancing plates and memories; weaving tales of photo line ups, childhood mishaps and mayhem; finding the natural rhythm of conversation and comfortable closeness which served to remind us why it is we should all meet more often.

These are days to cherish; touched as we have been by a slow fear of dark shadows on light boxes. Our ties that bind may fray a little and stretch with age and distance, but these twisted strands of shared experience and DNA will hold us together, always. 

Ebb and flow

Rippled  mud, as the river ebbs and flows; creating its own patterns to soften a harsh industrial scene etched on the near horizon. 

Super cranes stand sentinel, a herd of clanking dinosaurs; alert, scenting the morning breeze for passing prey.

Along the narrow path lace is fading, til nothing but dry twigs remain; marking a season slowly slipping away

Snails creep through crack, crevice and lichen blooms; then up over the channeled wall; sheltered from the blustering breeze and beady eyed birds

Whilst gulls wheel and cry their mournful songs above slow decaying wood and weathered stone

.... And birds gather to sit like pegs on empty washing lines; gazing at a slow sinking sun