healingwords: poetry for the soul

I came across this old tree trunk on a walk near my home. It reminded me of the 'night drives' of my childhood. After waiting for my baby brother to see a train pass at the level crossing, we would drive round the lanes spotting night creatures in the headlights before stopping to see the faery tables, a field of old tree stumps where the woodland folk would eat and dance. This poem is a homage to my parents who gave me a lifelong love of all things dancing at the edge of our imagination.  FAERY SEAT Abandoned grove reclaimed as hand of man retreats, Garroba limbs twined with over grown olives, silver blades flashing as wood chimes with birdsong. Old Garroba, hollowed by years of fruitful giving, sweet smell of carob mingles with pine scent, tree perfume wafting on freshening night air. Sculptured wood cave, cragged bark lined with woven cushion, sharp needles softened as green fades to shades of autumnal decay. The...

Today I stood in welcome rain, the storm brewing and breaking over the hills.  After months of blue skies we need more rain, the countryside is tinder crisp, the river bed dry stones, the trees and flora thirsting for water. Today was a short burst of refreshing cool and as the season cools and the warm sea holds its heat, we can expect an autumn of heavy rains. I hope they will be good rains, not the destructive force that can affect this area after a hot summer.  SUNDAY STORM   Weeks of summer heat, life adjusts to sun’s rhythm, if not done before the fireball starts its westward arc    the toil can wait another day.   Heat blasting rock face, geckos hide in creviced shade, green fades to dusty grey as water leaches from cracked, parched earth.   I join the creatures, spend days holed in cool of thick walled cave, come alive at night when owl swoop and bats flitter.   Today the season turned, terr...

This poem was inspired by a recent trip to Petracos, a few miles from my home. A short climb from the valley brings you to a walk way from which you can see the cave paintings, explained on panels as part of the restoration of the area by the MARQ, archeological museum of Alicante. The paintings are an outstanding example of macro schematic art dating back 8,000 years and it is inspiring to find them in such a quiet and natural setting. Apart from the safety rails and explanatory panels the landscape feels like it has changed little since an unknown hand painted the rock walls and took shelter in the Sanctuary Cave.  Thanks to Lesley for sharing the walk and her photographs. PETRACOS Treading the stone path head bent against blinding sun, shaded rest under leafy boughs, chasing the sun creeping from valley to Sanctuary, stopping to gaze upwards at rock canvas, eyes slowly perceiving shapes, patterns, figures sprouting in burnt red from mustard grey. ...

August 12th is celebrated in my village with Mass and a candlelit procession in honour of the Divine Aurora. It is a special day which starts early, when we are woken  at dawn by the sound of the village band serenading the women named Aurora, Spanish for dawn. My four children are all musicians who have played in the band and I have always got up early to listen to the Aurora. The band and the village youngsters will have not slept, going straight from the Fiesta partying to get their instruments and play, followed by breakfast in the street from the bakers before managing a few hours sleep. The waltz is played again at the end of the evening procession when the  village gather to hear the music and honour the Divine Aurora. It is always emotional, people remembering those not present but became more so for our family in 2010 when my mother died on the evening of the Aurora. I was by her side and my children were playing far away. Every year when the Aurora plays we remem...

This plant with the wonderful name 'Echeveria Deresina grows on our patio in Spain and hangs from many balconies in the village.  It survives drought and heat, regenerating yearly as old leaves drop and new ones take their place. The colours shade from blue to rose grey with more green tinging the leaf when water is plenty. The leaves form a natural holder for dew drops which sparkle like jewels, the inspiration for this poem.  DEW JEWEL Walk the corridor from street to patio, room wide space built for donkey’s tread, flanks fat with stick baskets, through cool cave interior, to blink eyed sunlight, terracotta floored funnel, blue roofed with sky. Flaked stone walls, mortared with trust, dust backdrop to riot of geraniums, tumbling down in velvet flames, scarlets, fuchsias, blood red corollas, summer exhibitionists flashing petals like swirling flamenco shawls. Raised on Valencian baked tile sits Echeveria Deresina, earthed in clay, ...

My village is in an area once part of Al Andalus, the Moorish kingdom which covered a large part of the Iberian peninsula from the 8th to the 15th century. The remaining Muslim communities were expelled from the Valencia region in the 'Expulsion of the Moriscos' after 1609 leaving emptied villages and devastated communities. The evidence of their presence is still visible in the terraced hillsides and water installations and in the place names and faces of their descendants. This poem was inspired by their history and nature's slow reclamation of the land after people have gone.  REWILDED Stone, prised from red earth by  weathered worn ghost hands, laboured into walls and homes, lies forgotten, tumbled like piles  of tannin soaked sugar cubes. Mossed into the hill as pines spike  through floors where children played, ivy twines over slab lintels as creeping green invades mans’ space, nature reclaiming, rewilding. The echo of a Mo...

In the fierce heat of a Spanish summer walking among trees is a cool pleasure tinged with awareness of the constant risk of forest fire. I have seen our hillsides burn and the explosive flare of a resin filled pine tree, followed by the whisking of fire by wind to set light to more trees is a terrifying vision of nature's destructive potential. After the fires the land is blackened and seems dead but some trees and shrubs survive as small flushes of green and under the ash nature is renewing itself. Spring sees fresh shoots, the land slowly greens and in a few short years verdant growth replaces the burnt earth.  This poem is inspired by a recent walk on a misty afternoon, the humid heat broken by shafts of burning sun as the clouds lifted.  Following the path and spotting the trails of the wild boar who are at home on the hills of El Carrascal, I felt their eyes watching from their daytime lairs.   HOLM OAK Winding through pine trunks, path scuffed...

This is a short poem to send my birthday best wishes to Carmel, who lifts our spirits everyday with her beautiful facebook page, The Path through the Woods. We all need nature in our lives, the photographs and messages Carmel posts daily bring the beauty of the natural world to all those who are not fortunate to have immediate access and remind us to find time to recharge and heal in nature. Thank you for your time and generosity.  WITH THANKS On the day of her birth, we who have been touched by her generosity of spirit, we who daily walk the Path through the Woods, guided by her hand, give thanks and wish her happiness and serenity, at peace with the whispering of the leaves, sustained by the light shining through the trees. 

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...

 I wrote this poem with love and thanks, in celebration of friendship.  ANAM CARA Blessed I am to have shared my life with others. Friends who crossed my path when most needed. Some to stay for all time, quietly there, in my heart, others dipping in and out as years move our lives together and apart, gone when others’ needs were greater. Blessed I am to have friends who know me better than I know myself. Soul friends, teachers, wise ones, healers, forgiving, giving, sharing their best with me, finding the best in me, uplifting my spirit when darkness surrounds. Blessed I am to share friends ’ lives, the circle expanding as our children grow in harmony. Walking in cool woods, by flowing rivers, discovering new places, laughing round a table of food cooked with love, lying together under the stars. © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

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. ...

On every   visit back to my Coventry home I would find time to walk around Kenilworth Castle. I cycled there with my childhood friends, a daring 5 miles for today's children but it seemed normal then. I ran free in the Castle's shadow with my parents and brothers, enacting mock battles as imaginary Knights. In later years it was a more leisurely stroll, arm in arm with my mother. My own children joined me on our visits back from Spain, keen to share both the historical treasure and my memories and it was always a favourite walk with beloved friends, usually ending in the nearby cafe for tea and cake. I hope it will not be too long now before I return. CASTLE WALK Long have I walked the Castle walls, biking the lanes to picnic on damp grass,  arms though my mothers like linking chain,  returning from exile with my growing flock, an abiding place of peaceful pilgrimage. Crisscrossing the marsh, boots sucked mud wards, retreating to the high...

This is the view from the El Carrascal hillside, looking over the valley towards the Mediterranean Sea. The sun warmed the damp earth after the nights cleansing rains. The air smelt of pine and vibrated with birdsong.  AFTER THE RAIN   In Southern country, where arid desert creeps, rains fall brings shock of raging storm violence. Woken by light strobing hills, thunder’s drum crashing, rolling round 'Pop' valley like Fiesta’s fireworks flare. Rain comes, sudden, urgent drumming, drilling on tiles bouncing off terracotta, storming from gutter to street. Rush to batten down old shutters, pitch pine split from harsh sun, wind thrashing, driving lashing rain, spilling onto cold floors. Wired night of fitful sleep, broken in anxious unease, drifting between squalls until dawn breaks through breathing cloud. New day, blessed with warming light, tarmac sparkles on washed streets, refreshed earth drinks in liquid life, ...

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.  

An additional consequence to the loss of my parents has been the end of my regular visits to England. I am torn between missing my cool, green North country and the warmth of my friends and the inevitable sadness of returning with no family home and parents to welcome me. As so often my mind returns to the garden, where nature and love combined to make a treasured space. In this poem I can now look back with pleasure and less sadness.  I hope next Spring I will return, the garden is gone but the woods and the bluebells await. MISSING BLUEBELLS I have missed the bluebells, the spring renewal of sky painting, brushing the warming earth, shaking sleep from Oak woods. Unable to return, still afraid to face the step into a country where roots are now cut, where another walks the garden. Sweeping fallen oak leaves, bare branches greening, wood pigeons cooing from twigged woven nests. Surprised by waking flowers, nooks of shy snowdrops, spiked ...

ALTAMIRA Through narrow arch to enter  the domed rotunda, overseeing Elx, swaying with sky skimming palms,  sandstone walls illuminate  as sun streams golden fire through the ankh arrow loop. Startled by a white flutter as dove flies in panicked flight,  brushing herring boned walls,  to settle still on the bright ledge watchful of her egg lined nest, in wait for intruder’s retreat. Step out blinking in solar glare, footsteps echo from citadel walls, ghost guards of  the Aragon King, as pairing 'palomas' oblivious, bill and coo, bill and coo, in love’s courting dance.