The Eve of Spring

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On the eve of Spring,

the earth is a dirty place!

A rowdy Fall seems to have

flung things here and there

and Winter stubbornly refused

to pick them up.

The result is a sad chaos

of decaying leaves, abandoned nests

and an impressive assortment of litter

from some drunken teenage party.

Twigs and broken branches

are strewn like tiny corpses

on the ground.

Emerging from the dead,

Spring instinctively will come

bringing with it

an elixir of cleansing rain.

Following the purge,

rejuvenation is conceived.

Every long-forgotten seed

soon starts to grow, and the

landscape will change

before our eyes.

But for now, trees bend

like little old men,

crippled by harsh winds

and the burden of snow.

From their stooped position,

they lift their weathered faces

toward the sun – as we all do,

on the eve of Spring.

 

Foto Friday #34

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I grew up a country girl, so the hustle and bustle of a big city rarely appeals to me, but there is something about the freeways, waterways and railways in this photo of Glasgow, Scotland that make for an interesting picture. If the train (with its bright blue cars that match the water) had not been passing at the exact moment I snapped the photo, I suspect it would have been just another ordinary cityscape.

Photo taken from hotel room at Jurys Inn in Glasgow.

for Nancy Merrill Photography A Photo A Week Challenge: Cityscapes

Once There Was a Warrior

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His hut is the farthest from the fire.

It makes him feel brave and independent.

He built it out of timbers, straw and stone

with sticks for a door to impede intruders.

His people are hunters and gatherers,

reliant on wild game and edible plants.

His hunt takes him deep into the wilderness

where adventure stirs his spirit and enriches his soul.

Though he’s content to share the air with all living things,

he realizes sacrifices must be made.

When day is done, he brings his bounty to the fire

which burns in a circular pit lined with stone.

The aroma of roasting meat fills the air

and beckons those in their hut to share his food.

In praise, their gratitude becomes a song

composed and chanted in rhythm with the wind.

The fire that moments ago was a tool for cooking,

now bears a mocking resemblance to the sun

providing warmth and brightness to the night.

Around a smoky campfire the stories begin

bouncing back and forth across the flames.

Like kindling, words spark imagination.

Truths lead to legends and myths are born of lies.

Tall tales come to a halt when the embers die

and people wander quietly to their home.

His hut may be the farthest from the fire,

but stories fill his dreams and he is never cold.

Poem prompted by photo taken at Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England. The hut is a replica of one lived in 4,500 years ago by those who built Stonehenge.