healingwords: poetry for the soul

At this time of year the internet is awash with images of bluebell woods. It is heartening to see so many moved to visit the woods charmed by bluebell magic. Another year on I am still missing the bluebells, still missing my parents and our favourite woodland walk. Today I was cheered by a glorious walk on the hillsides of my village where each week a new Spring flower colours the woods. These lovely blue flowers are called 'lino azul',  blue linen, or Linen of Narbonne and they were some compensation for missing the bluebells.  LINO DE NARBONA - missing bluebells Miles away woods bloom alive as   April weaves its magic spell, uniting earth and sky as bells nod in a tapestry of green and blue. I last walked the woods in sad farewell, sorrow raw as skin scratched by thorns, I left them sleeping under Oak as  bluebells  stirred above their sun warmed bed. Miles away from Northern woods, bright light gilding spiring pines,  I smile  at Span

Poppies bloom in Spain from March through to April and I think of them as my birthday flower. The 'campo' is bright with Spring flowers and will grow wild and green after the rains falling this Easter time. In a few short weeks the heat of the sun will start to dry the earth as Summer approaches.  SCARLET PETALS Here poppies grow on road sides or sway on slim green legs dotted over rocky terraces, the land worthless as abandoned almond trees rewild. Scarlet petals, as delicate as the tissue sheets we split with licked chubby fingers, breath parting paper like flitting wings, scrunched into twisted gaudy blooms. Flowers tough enough to withstand the valley gusts billowing to the sea, or the April rains stinging like shot pellets as dark clouds scurry over the hills, blotting the sun. Here poppies herald Spring, heads waving above golden dandelion, clashing with fuchsia pinks, vivid amongst the dried stalks of last year’s fen

Today I read a beautiful tribute to the wisdom of trees which inspired me to post this poem about the spirits of trees, the Ninfa. NINFA Tree walking, between shade and light, skin shivers in coolness as dark pines eclipse the warmth of the sinking sun. Meditative steps, mind churning, turning over choices in hopeless pursuit like wanderers lost in a labyrinth of thought. I take rest by the high tree, hold petrified roots protruding through tumbled walled stone, Honcho Oak surveying its wooded domain. Back eased, eyes closed, trance mind open, I feel the ‘Ninfa’ gently probing, infiltrating; unresisting I unite with the spirit of the trees. Like catching sunbeams on the border of sight, limbs twist into wick branches, fingers knobble into twigs, feet root downwards in damp earth. Human eyes view the wood unchanged  whilst  spirit sees energies, leaves shimmering with life exchange of light and chlorophyll. ‘Ninfa’ heart bea

During a difficult time of recovery and uncertainty, a walk in the trees on 'El Carrascal' helped me to see my path ahead.  THE PATH REVEALED Confusion clouds my thinking like the mist rolling in over the ridged ‘Carrascal’, damp seeping through towering pines, lacing spiked holly oak like cobwebs traced in drops of early morning dew. Crunch layered carpet of dried needles, dotted with gnawed innards of fallen cones, winter feast of leaping squirrels, I weave through trees, elder trunks cragged with reptile scales, circled by whippy stands of pale saplings. I break free of brambled wood as a fresh wind funnels down the valley, whipping white haze, wisps curling, clouds scurrying towards the sea, revealing hidden sun whose shining glow drips golden through the parasol of waxed green. Ahead lies my path, bordered by sweet thyme, a symphony of birdsong and whispering leaves, carob arm points the way as I walk bathed in light,