A POEM A DAY - FLUTTER


This seed head stood high above the low shrubs, waving in the breeze, the seeds looking like the yellow butterflies fluttering around the campo. 

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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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MISSING BLUEBELLS

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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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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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