healingwords: poetry for the soul

I started this 'A POEM A DAY' project on July 4th 2019 with the intention of continuing until the November anniversary of this blog. Somehow I continued, through ill health, busy days, quiet times and lockdown. Writing three simple lines each day became part of my routine, bringing unexpected benefits. I doubt that many more people read my longer poems on this blog but I was touched by the number of people who expressed their pleasure in reading them. It also helped motivate me to get out into nature, to look more carefully at my environment, to slow down and enjoy the smallest petal or insect, the movement of clouds, the patterns in waves and sand.  I feel it is time to move on before I run out of inspiration and try something new. I intend to finish the memoir of an intense period of my life in Spain when our village worked together to protect our environment. With trees still be destroyed all over the world in the name of progress and with my appreciation of the role of our

In a few more days these threads of delicate light will be floating free over the countryside, seeding a new beginning for the thistle. 

The first month of our Spring lockdown passed in a mist of cloud and gentle rain. Day after day we looked out over a mountain shrouded in grey and wondered when the sun would ever shine again. At the time it had the useful effect of making staying indoors less arduous whilst the longing for sunshine grew day by day. Now I am thankful for that rain, the campo and countryside is still green as July ticks by, a time when normally everything is looking parched and brown. The hills are still dotted by myriad colours as flowers survive the summer heat. 

On my wall I have a print of a Cambodian dancer by Rodin. This constellation of scattered flowers reminds me of the energy of a Rodin dancer lighting up the dry, stony land. 

This striking plant covers the hills and fields here in July, the flowers slowly drying and folding inwards to form a husked cage. Today I watched a flitting bird land on the flower which whipped back and forth like a circus act as it flew off me reminding me of spinning plates on spindly sticks. 

The beauty of a quiet evening by the sea, night falling as a rosy glow spreads across the sky bringing a moment of tranquility. 

This is a good example of the slow degrading of the terraces in this area. If the dry stone walls are not maintained the action of wind, rain and roaming jabali break down the walls, letting the earth wash away, in this case exposing the roots of the olive tree. What is amazing is the length of these roots, spreading farther than the height of the tree itself in search of water. The hillsides are covered with abandoned terraces, stone walls still standing in many places but the trees olive trees grown wild, the terraces filled in with slow growing holm oak overshadowed by the faster growing pine. 

These beautiful pink flowers appear in small clusters scattered over the banks and paths through the wooded areas on our hillsides. Their vibrant colour lights up the dull earth and fallen pine needles as if they have been scattered like seeds sown from a farmer's apron. 

This little spring is known as the 'Font de Pascualet' and is just off the road winding up to the Penya Blanca near Benichembla. The water trickles out from a crack in the rock to gather in a small stone pool, still decorated with verdant green despite the July heat. 

Coming into July the Summer heat has finally arrived after a pleasant June. For the first few days of intense heat and humidity we are all flaking, low blood pressure dropping lower, water, coffee, salt and wine the medicine. Last night the humidity reached 100%, it felt like breathing soup. I came downstairs to the patio to slightly cooler air, sat with my early morning tea and was instantly refreshed when a wind rose from nowhere, tinkling my Dad's chimes as they did in our Warwickshire garden where the fae always found a home.  Here is my terracotta wind Goddess, blowing over my patio. 

As dusk fell over the sea the fisherman waded into the waves, throwing their nets by hand over the water. I didn't see the catch, leaving the beach before darkness.