healingwords: poetry for the soul

Today I have been looking through the last year's photographs, images of the countryside around my Spanish village and from my Autumn visit to Ireland, England and Wales. This photograph leapt out at me. It was taken at the Hill of Tara in County Meath in Ireland where the boundaries of the ancient site are guarded by battered hawthorn trees, bent double by the wind. The branches of some of the hawthorn trees were covered with tied rags, rosaries and gifts in prayers to the old Gods and Goddesses. There is a real worry that the increase in such offerings can damage the trees and visitors to sacred sites in Ireland and the UK are asked to respect the trees. This hawthorn had a number of grass stalks tied to the branches, some already fallen to the ground, which seemed a much safer way to respect the tree and the magical air blowing around the Hill of Tara.  I loosely tied a blade of grass with a knot on a low branch and made my own wish, one which now I am thankful and happy to say ...

Rosemary grows wild in this area of the Mediterranean. The latin name means 'rocio del mar', or dew of the sea and when it is sprinkled with blue flowers, it takes on the colour of the Mediterrean sea.  It is not a small patio herb but grows as large, woody bushes that cover the hills, complementing pine and holm oak. The herb is thrown on barbecues or on the flames beneath a paella pan and its aromatic scent reminds me of the woods. Dried rosemary is a protective herb and is said to be kept by the front door or under the bed to keep you safe in your sleep.  

This is my window display for the Christmas decorations competition run by Parcent Town Hall. We are asked to use recycled materials and it is judged on creativity, the use of materials and illumination. My plan to invite people to take a Christmas wish was nearly blown away for the fierce winds battering the village last night. I will be posting a Christmas wish each day for all who would like a little cheer. 

As it is still too wet for me to walk in the trees near my Spanish home, here is a reminder of the beautiful woods in Ireland This is Cnoc Meadha Wood in County Galway, a peaceful and magical place.  © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

There is something of magic about rainbows, despite knowing the science we still stop to stare and smile at a rainbow as the sunlight splits into colour. The idea of the pot of gold at the rainbow's end remains beguiling.  © 2019 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

This country walk and the 'Algarrobo' trees inspired years of bedtimes stories for my children and is still one of our favoured paths, through olive groves, past pine and fragrant rosemary, down to the river.  THE MAGIC TREE Our favourite walk, tireless chubby legs skippity jumping around the ‘camino rural’, tiptoed peering at frogspawn as black jelly dots sprout wriggling tails, whip powered before morphing into hoppy, speckled froglets in the stagnant trough. Peeling fallen ‘mandarinas’, oil squirt of sharp citrus bursts in  orange mist, wipe our sticky fingers on dew spangled leaves, chewing leggy fennel, green sap zinging liquorice, collecting  spiral snail shells, mossed stones stippled with emptied homes. Tread familiar path to the old 'algarrobos', hollowed trunks bearing looping branches, grounding, rerooting as ancient trees spread their green canopies over boar snuffled earth, sweet dried carobs jumbled  like pic...

San Juan is celebrated in Spain with bonfires on the beach. People take a picnic, eat together and then jump over the flames and splash in the waves. Your troubles are said to be consumed by the fire, some people write down what they wish to leave behind and throw the paper in the flames.  Bathing in the sea is to drive away evil, bringing good luck for the rest of the year. Many people make a wish as they jump the waves.  The date is closely linked to the Summer solstice, San Juan also being a celebration of Summer. The Pagan and Christian rituals both emphasise renewal with the combination of fire and water. This poem describes a special evening of San Juan on a beach near Denia when the weather played its part in the magic.  NIGHT OF SAN JUAN Sifting sand through fingers, mind floating, evening sun warms milk pale legs, summers first unveiling. Propped on boned elbow, watch busy children splashing, castles raising, wet skin glistening. ...

The creative process of writing fascinates me. There are times it is down to hard work, opening the page and putting aside distractions. However, I believe a lot of the creative preparation goes on at the back of our brain, where the germ of an idea is planted and the mind ticks away unnoticed. As I have inherited the family trait of insomnia, I often wake in the night and whilst the world sleeps, words make patterns in my mind. If I am lucky, they pour out as a poem in the morning and I can quickly capture them. They will need to be refined and polished but often the poem is there, as if by magic.   WORD WITCH I am a mixer of words. The crock simmers, ladle soothing balm to heal raw wounds of sorrow, fire righteous flames that spit out caustic darts of ire, conjure measured rhetoric, devoir for justice slicing through hypocrisy. I am a word witch. The day’s words done  await the moon muse  when owls g...