healingwords: poetry for the soul

It rained for weeks this Spring during the early lockdown,  gentle, good rain, not the torrential downpours which strip the land and damage the roads. It has resulted in a glorious greening of the campo, grass is growing under trees, shrubs and herbs are verdant and glowing. The heat has suddenly struck and within days we will see the grass wilting and browning but for a little while longer the campo is a verdant and beautiful as I have ever seen it. 

I was struck the other day by the wonderful palette of greens in the small patch of land by the spring at La Rompuda. In one small area there were pines, holm oak shrubs, abandoned olives, bright cherry, a fig tree and a camp corner where green reeds towered over my head like a cane jungle. 

These winter months can be dull even in Spain, however when the sun shines the light transforms the countryside. This image would not be admired by real photographers as the light is too strong and bleaching, but I love how it illuminates the clover leaves in the shape of hearts. When I was young I could spend hours lying on grass, looking for a lucky four leaf clover. I think I would have found a few here.  © 2020 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

The patio can look a little sad in winter, the geraniums hibernate, the flowers wait for the warm and without the prompt of summer heat we can forget to water the pots. Slowly the bright green leaches from the leaves until a good watering from a few days rain and a burst of mid day sun is enough to bring life to the winter plants.  © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

At this time of year the fierce summer heat dries all the surrounding landscape. The spring flowers and waist high grasses wither into a brown, dusty crisp, the hillside pines an ominous green shadow carrying the menace of sudden fire. The holidaymakers enjoy the sun, sea, pools and Spanish welcome. My northern blood screams with exhaustion after the first few weeks of intense heat and I start to long for the cool, for rivers, woods and mountain lakes, for wild seas, for the green that only refreshing rain can bring. Then I dream of water.  TO DREAM OF WATER Levante damned by drought, bleached stones like Dover chalk exposed in dried up beds awaiting Autumn’s torrents; husks of scorched plant life, death grey, crunch underfoot, hillsides a spark away from flame, an exile dreams of water. Licking lips moist from mizzle, toddler boots stomping, splashing; breath holding cold of paddling feet, toes sinking in squelching sand; slipping in moss co...