A POEM A DAY - TUNNELERS




A knee high tunnel under the field, the 'campo' around my village is filled with secret places, we just need to look. 

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DREAMING BLUE

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I am heartened by the number of people sharing their beautiful photographs of bluebell woods and spreading the love of nature. As I am 1,400 miles away from my favourite woods I can only enjoy these glimpses of their beauty and dream of bluebells.  DREAMING BLUE I dream of bluebells; released in sleep from restraint of time and place, I wander free, my copse a composite of woodlands flashed before me, snapped and ether shared, bluebells to be sure the robin of flowers, secure in the awe of all who walk the swaying seas, dazzled by their beauty, a cloak of violet blue spread under trees shading green, blue like the deepening sky as the sun’s embers sliver gold, light gilding the horizon.    © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  
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ANAM CARA, in praise of friendship

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 I wrote this poem with love and thanks, in celebration of friendship.  ANAM CARA Blessed I am to have shared my life with others. Friends who crossed my path when most needed. Some to stay for all time, quietly there, in my heart, others dipping in and out as years move our lives together and apart, gone when others’ needs were greater. Blessed I am to have friends who know me better than I know myself. Soul friends, teachers, wise ones, healers, forgiving, giving, sharing their best with me, finding the best in me, uplifting my spirit when darkness surrounds. Blessed I am to share friends ’ lives, the circle expanding as our children grow in harmony. Walking in cool woods, by flowing rivers, discovering new places, laughing round a table of food cooked with love, lying together under the stars. © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  
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MISSING BLUEBELLS

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An additional consequence to the loss of my parents has been the end of my regular visits to England. I am torn between missing my cool, green North country and the warmth of my friends and the inevitable sadness of returning with no family home and parents to welcome me. As so often my mind returns to the garden, where nature and love combined to make a treasured space. In this poem I can now look back with pleasure and less sadness.  I hope next Spring I will return, the garden is gone but the woods and the bluebells await. MISSING BLUEBELLS I have missed the bluebells, the spring renewal of sky painting, brushing the warming earth, shaking sleep from Oak woods. Unable to return, still afraid to face the step into a country where roots are now cut, where another walks the garden. Sweeping fallen oak leaves, bare branches greening, wood pigeons cooing from twigged woven nests. Surprised by waking flowers, nooks of shy snowdrops, spiked ...
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LOVE IN THE AIR

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This poem and photograph are inspired by the wedding of my eldest daughter this week in our Valencian village, at the foot of the 'El Carrascal' mountain.  It was a magical, beautiful celebration bringing together the best of Spanish and Northern traditions (jamon and wine, tea and cake topped off with Irish music), uplifted by the love of family and friends.  LOVE IN THE AIR Under El Carrascal’s gaze sunlight dripped gold through silvered olive leaves, gilding blooms in wicker, greening tumbling ivy, casting dancing garlands on crisp blades of woven grass. Gnarled boughs embracing, bear witness to love’s union, groom serene, bride radiant, red curls crowned with flowers, gauze brushed with gold dust as puffs of white fairy fluff float skywards on May breeze. © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  
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TREE HEALING

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Last winter I spent some weeks in Coventry emptying and selling our family home. This was a difficult time, saying goodbye not only to my parents but to my childhood and my link to England. This house remained my home, it was where we all returned to, where my own children and even my tiny grandchild stayed and visited, a special place for us all. Being at the house without my father, sorting through my parents belongings, knowing I would soon not be able to return, already missing the garden, I was overwhelmed with sadness.     This poem recalls the day I tried and failed to be cheerful, leaving my friends after helping to decorate the party room, knowing I was still set apart from normal life. Without thinking I stopped at the woods, alone in the dusk and after time with the trees and the silence, felt some sadness lift and float away into the night sky. I returned home lighter, with oak leaves in my pocket.   Grief is a process, there are days when I am still hit h...
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SPRING GARDEN

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This poem celebrates my father’s birthday and the coming of Spring in the garden of my old family home. The garden saw many lives, a children’s playground, a mini allotment bringing vegetables and fruits to the table, a cottage garden with flowers, fishponds and dove cote, a mature garden loved by my parents who planted trees, grasses, shrubs and flowers to make a home for birds and wildlife. As they became elderly and less able the garden evolved once more, growing wild, a riotous overgrown jumble as nature took over, a space of wooded beauty in the middle of the city. I loved the garden, for its spirit and my memories and now my parents and the house are gone it lives on as part of me. It seems apt that the greening of Spring coincides with the day my father came into this world. SPRING GARDEN A year since I walked the cobbled path, winding from house to garden’s end, felt Winter loosening ice chains in season’s yearly dance. The great Oak bestrides the gar...
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AFTER THE RAIN

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This is the view from the El Carrascal hillside, looking over the valley towards the Mediterranean Sea. The sun warmed the damp earth after the nights cleansing rains. The air smelt of pine and vibrated with birdsong.  AFTER THE RAIN   In Southern country, where arid desert creeps, rains fall brings shock of raging storm violence. Woken by light strobing hills, thunder’s drum crashing, rolling round 'Pop' valley like Fiesta’s fireworks flare. Rain comes, sudden, urgent drumming, drilling on tiles bouncing off terracotta, storming from gutter to street. Rush to batten down old shutters, pitch pine split from harsh sun, wind thrashing, driving lashing rain, spilling onto cold floors. Wired night of fitful sleep, broken in anxious unease, drifting between squalls until dawn breaks through breathing cloud. New day, blessed with warming light, tarmac sparkles on washed streets, refreshed earth drinks in liquid life, ...
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This poem was inspired by a recent trip to Petracos, a few miles from my home. A short climb from the valley brings you to a walk way from which you can see the cave paintings, explained on panels as part of the restoration of the area by the MARQ, archeological museum of Alicante. The paintings are an outstanding example of macro schematic art dating back 8,000 years and it is inspiring to find them in such a quiet and natural setting. Apart from the safety rails and explanatory panels the landscape feels like it has changed little since an unknown hand painted the rock walls and took shelter in the Sanctuary Cave.  Thanks to Lesley for sharing the walk and her photographs. PETRACOS Treading the stone path head bent against blinding sun, shaded rest under leafy boughs, chasing the sun creeping from valley to Sanctuary, stopping to gaze upwards at rock canvas, eyes slowly perceiving shapes, patterns, figures sprouting in burnt red from mustard grey. ...
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The Path through the Woods

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