healingwords: poetry for the soul

As my mind is on the arrival of two grandchildren I am reminded of my own childrens' childhoods. They always loved watching the ducks, at ponds in parks, on the river or in the garden of our neighbour in the village. It won't be long before my daughters will be walking their own children around the park to see the ducks.   © 2020 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

This door knocker is on a door  in front of my house and an example of the hidden art in my Spanish village. The old house is used as a storage space and no one lives there. Since my grandson was a tiny baby in arms I have walked the four metres between the two doors and held him up to knock the hand. I love the detail of the ring and the ruffled sleeve and I wonder how many hands have held the cold metal over the generations that lived in the house.  © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

Spring is finally arriving in our corner of Spain, the breeze has changed from bracing to warm and birdsong and the buzzing of insects can be heard from the patios and rooftops. The ‘campo’ is greening and wild spring flowers colour the hillsides and olive and almond groves after the winter drought was broken with a few weeks of welcome rain. I appreciate being able to walk out and be amongst this natural beauty but find as so often my mind is drawn back to Warwickshire and my childhood haunts. I love the litany of flower names, recited on country walks with my mother. She loved flowers, both wild and in her garden and they live on in my memories.     FLOWERS - WALKING WITH MY MOTHER Buttercups held under chin, gold reflecting love of butter, melting on Sunday’s marmite toast. Puckered face concentrates as pearl nails pinch daisy stems, crowned on child’s tossed curls. Jump over marsh marigolds lining damp ditches, sticklebacks in jam jars ...

A year has passed since the death of my father. A year in which I miss our daily conversations, his constant love and support, his wisdom and humour. On a difficult day when I all I could think of was the trauma of his death I heard his voice telling me to stop crying and write a poem. This poem recalls some of the special times I spent with my Dad. The sadness remains as to keep him entertained in his housebound later years I would email my poems to him. When clearing out his house I found a file with printed copies of everything I had ever sent him, poems, childrens stories, my unfinished memoir, the collection of poems about my mother’s life and death, my childrens rhymes. I wish he could read this one last poem and hope he knows how much he is loved. IN PLACE OF TEARS Standing on a chair at the kitchen sink, rinsing my hair in vinegar to make it shine; buffeted by wind on a Welsh beach sculpting a sand car big enough to drive; di...