Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: flowers

  • Abermawr: Where the Pebbles Rule and the Wind Howls

    Abermawr: Where the Pebbles Rule and the Wind Howls

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    Abermawr, a place so charmingly isolated that it’s basically Wales’ version of the Shire, but with more pebbles and less hobbits. Imagine a beach so covered in stones, you’d need a geology degree to figure out which end is up. But hey, at least you’ll have strong ankles!


    They say it’s got a rich history, involving some bloke called Brunel who wanted to turn it into a bustling port. Good luck with that, mate, when half the place is under water at high tide! Now it’s just a haven for seals, birds, and people who really, really enjoy the sound of their own footsteps.


    It’s like nature said, “Let’s create a beach, but forget the sand. Pebbles? Tons of ’em!” And so, Abermawr was born. If you’re into solitary walks, seagull chatter, and the occasional seal popping up to say hello, then this is your kind of place. Just don’t expect a five-star hotel or even a decent chippy nearby. This is rugged, windswept Wales, people! But hey, the stars at night are incredible. If you can brave the cold, that is.


    So if you’re looking for peace, quiet, and a whole lot of pebbles, Abermawr is your oyster. Or should we say, your pebble?

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  • Unseen blossoms bloom

    Unseen blossoms bloom

    Unseen blossoms bloom,
    In the corners of my mind,
    Silent refuge found.

    Open the gate

    There is a garden somewhere, always just out of reach, a flicker at the edge of my vision, a scent that lingers like a memory, where the flowers are thoughts and the trees, they grow dreams, or maybe it’s all a mirage, a trick of the light, something my mind conjures up to escape the monotony, the dull hum of daily life. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I think I hear it, the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze that carries the whisper of forgotten hopes. Is it real? Or just a fragment of my imagination, a place where everything makes sense, where the chaos of the world is filtered through petals and roots?

    I picture the paths, winding and narrow, leading me deeper into the labyrinth of my own psyche, each step a journey inward. The sun filters through a canopy of thoughts, dappling the ground with patches of clarity and confusion, and I wander, seeking something I can never quite grasp. There are benches there, I think, places to rest and ponder, but every time I sit, the thoughts come rushing, swirling like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust. The garden grows, morphs, with every beat of my heart, every pulse of my brain. Flowers bloom with ideas I can’t quite articulate, and the air is thick with potential, like the moment before a storm when the world holds its breath.

    I wonder if others have a garden like mine, hidden in the folds of their consciousness, a secret refuge from the tangible and the mundane. Do their gardens burst with color and life, or are they barren, desolate landscapes, echoes of their fears and regrets? Sometimes I see people there, shadowy figures moving among the greenery, their faces blurred and indistinct. Are they visitors, like me, or are they part of the garden itself, manifestations of my deepest thoughts and emotions?

    Time doesn’t move the same way in this place. Minutes stretch into hours, or maybe it’s the other way around. I lose myself in the rhythm of the garden, the way the flowers sway and the leaves shimmer, and I forget about the world outside, the deadlines, the noise, the never-ending rush. Here, in this elusive space, I find a piece of myself that I didn’t know was missing, a tranquility that feels both alien and familiar.

    There is a garden somewhere, and though I can’t always find it, I know it’s there, waiting, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of existence. And maybe that’s enough, just knowing it’s there, just knowing that in some hidden corner of my mind, a garden grows, wild and untamed, proof of the power of dreams and the value of hope.

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  • One Plant.

    One Plant.

    Plastic pot, real soul,
    Struggle in fluorescent purgatory,
    Bloom defies the gloom.

    Needs Nourishing

    You open the fridge. Same sad parade of limp celery and fluorescent cheese. Nothing that ever bloomed, nothing that ever fought for a scrap of sunlight. Pathetic. You’re surrounded by the walking dead of the grocery store, and you feel the same. A hollow husk shuffling through the fluorescent purgatory of your life.

    That’s why you need a plant. Not a plastic monstrosity gathering dust in the corner. A real one. Something scrabbling for life in a pot too small, with dirt drier than your dating prospects. It’s a metaphor, see? You gotta nurture that sucker, just like you gotta nurture the shrivelled husk you call a soul.

    Watering it becomes a ritual. A daily baptism by cold, hard reality. You can’t cheat it. You can’t drown it with neglect or smother it with love. It needs a balance, a tightrope walk between life and crispy death. Just like you.

    And then, maybe, just maybe, that crusty little constant pain in your side will reward you with a bloom. A defiant splash of colour in the beige wasteland of your existence. Proof that even in the most artificial environment, something beautiful can still struggle to exist.

    It’s a constant reminder: you’re not that different, you sad office drone. You wilt under fluorescent lights, crave nourishment, and dream of escaping your plastic pot. But with a little care, a little struggle, you too might just manage a pathetic bloom in the grand scheme of things.

    So go get yourself a plant, you desiccated excuse for humanity. Maybe watching it fight for life will inspire you to do the same. Or, at the very least, you’ll have something pretty to look at as you wither away.

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  • 🌸Take a Moment🌸

    🌸Take a Moment🌸

    As in William Wordsworth’s timeless verse, I found myself wandering through the vast expanse of my thoughts. Just as the poet mused upon a solitary cloud drifting aimlessly, I too ponder the intricacies of life and nature.

    In each petal, life,
    🌸Courage rises from the soil,🌸
    In each bloom, a sigh

    Flowers – these unexpected bursts of colour and fragrance, have captivated humanity since the dawn of time. We find ourselves drawn to their delicate forms, their vibrant hues that seem to defy the boundaries of the natural world. Perhaps it is their fleeting existence that gives them such power. They are a poignant reminder of the relentless cycle of life, death, and rebirth, blooming with an energy that seems to defy their inevitable wilt.

    Is it the velvety caress of a rose petal, the intricacy of stamen and pistil in a lily, or the heady perfume of a jasmine vine that speaks to our soul? Or is it something deeper, a connection to a forgotten past, a memory of Eden etched into our collective unconscious?

    Take a moment, dear reader, to pause in your hurried existence. Let your gaze linger on the beauty of a floral arrangement. Inhale the subtle perfume.  Allow yourself to be transported to a realm of tranquillity, a space where worries dissipate and the simple beauty of existence takes centre stage.

    What whispers do the flowers share with you? What resonates within your soul when you behold their fleeting splendour? Share your thoughts in the comments below, let us delve together into the allure of flowers. If you feel, write a blog and leave a link.

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  • A Bird of Exquisite Taste?

    A Bird of Exquisite Taste?

    Have you ever seen a sight more captivating than a bullfinch perched amongst a cascade of cherry blossoms? They compliment each other divinely. The delicate blush of the petals, practically translucent in the spring sunlight, reflects in your breast like a masterpiece. You’re a feathered Monet, flitting from blossom to blossom, a tiny burst of colour in a world just waking from winter’s slumber.

    Bullfinch & Cherry Blossom
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    But listen up, you little charmer. That innocent facade doesn’t fool me for a second. I know your secret. 

    Beneath that adorable exterior lurks a truth as undeniable as the changing seasons: you’re a blossom-bud bandit, a destroyer of delicate dreams. 

    Here these cherry trees are, putting on a spectacular show, a celebration of spring’s arrival. They unfurl their petals, a promise of summer’s bounty. Tourists flock from far and wide to witness their fleeting beauty. And what are you doing? 

    You’re there, perched on a branch with the audacity of a feathered Robin Hood, stuffing your beak with the very buds that would become those breathtaking blossoms. You’re a horticultural highwayman, stealing the very essence of spring with each peck.

    Do you have any idea how much work goes into those buds, little buddy? How the tree meticulously stores energy all winter long, channelling it into those tiny packages of potential? 

    And you? You waltz in with your plump body and insatiable appetite, a feathered locust descending on a field of dreams.

    Look, I get it. Nature’s a cycle, survival of the fittest and all that. But couldn’t you just stick to the seeds that fall to the ground? Have a little respect for the artistry, each individual splash of beauty on display!

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    Petal rain falls soft,
    Cherry dreams devoured whole,
    Beauty’s sacrifice. 

    Anthony

    So next time you’re considering a blossom-bud breakfast, remember, you’re not just robbing a tree, you’re robbing us all of a fleeting moment of magic. 

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy the blossoms before they all become victims of your floral felony. Just try to keep your beak on the straight and narrow, alright?

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  • My Elusive Dream

    My Elusive Dream

    Through ancient paths, seekers stray,
    Amidst the woods, where my dreams lay.
    With every step, anticipation looms,
    Lost in wonder, pure magic blooms.

    Anthony
    Bluebells and ferns

    For weeks, I’d been on the hunt. The elusive bluebell woods, whispered about in hushed tones by fellow nature enthusiasts, had become my personal grail. Everywhere I turned, the internet boasted photos of these magical glades, carpeted in a mesmerising sea of blue. The dream? To capture that scene myself, a vision of sapphire and emerald.

    The hunt, however, proved frustrating. One lead sent me down an old muddy farm track where I met a grumpy old muddy farmer. The fleeting window of the bluebell bloom was narrowing, and a sliver of worry began to gnaw at my resolve. Each failed expedition chipped away at my optimism, leaving me with nothing but wellies caked in mud and a knapsack full of disappointment.

    Then, on a whim, I decided to explore a barely-there track on the edge of a sleepy village. The rusty gate, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, its ancient latch, which yielded with a satisfying groan, marked the entrance. Anticipation intensified, the air itself held the sweet promise of spring.

    Sunlight, which filtered through the ancient beech tree canopy, dappled the path ahead. Decomposing leaves crunched underfoot, their earthy scent mingling with the fresh, green perfume of emerging life. Primroses peeked out shyly, tendrils of ivy, like scrawny fingers, reached out from the gnarled trunks, and jewel-toned flies buzzed lazily past, their iridescent wings catching the fragmented light.

    The first hint of blue came not from a flower, but a flash of a blue tit flitting amongst the branches. It was a prelude, a tease of the main act.

    And then, there it was.

    Bluebells and beeches

    A gasp escaped my lips. The woodland floor wasn’t carpeted, it was engulfed in a breathtaking sea of bluebells. Their delicate, bell-shaped blooms swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, the blue contrasting effortlessly with the verdant young beech leaves. In that moment, my world seemed to shrink to this small glade, all my worries and anxieties melting away.

    Beside this breathtaking display, another patch of magic unfolded. Lush green ferns, unfurling their delicate fronds, created a textural contrast with the smooth bluebells. This wasn’t just a carpet of colour, it was a living, breathing artwork, a masterwork of nature.

    My frustrations melted away entirely, replaced by a profound sense of wonder. Here, in this hidden haven, I had found not just a breathtaking scene to capture, but a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. I suppose the photographs were a reason to search, but being here is what I really wanted. The elusive bluebells had revealed their secret, they had gifted me a memory that would forever be etched in my heart.

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  • The Unfurls of Memory: A Meditation on Cherry Blossoms

    The Unfurls of Memory: A Meditation on Cherry Blossoms

    White whispers in green,
    A fleeting dance, then silence,
    Echoes of us all.

    Anthony
    Spring

    The city was a canvas of green, dappled sunlight bleeding through the leaves of the park. There, amidst the sprawl of emerald, a single cherry blossom unfurled its petals. It was a stark white, almost luminous, with a blush of pink at the edges like a shy smile. It hung there, fragile and perfect, a whisper of impermanence in the heart of the bustling city.

    This beauty, so mesmerising, was just passing. The cherry blossom’s life was measured in moments, a fleeting dance before succumbing to the inevitable silence of fallen petals. And in that transience, there was a stark reflection of our own mortality. We too, were but blossoms briefly blooming, destined to fade into the vast unknown.

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  • A Moment of Rest

    A Moment of Rest

    Sun warms downy chest,
    Spring whispers on the breeze,
    Nest yet to be built.

    Anthony
    Spring is on its way

    Ah, that breeze feels glorious on my feathers! Just a tiny rest, that’s all I need. (Fluffs feathers) See? Much better. Though, gotta keep an eye out for those pesky hawks.

    Spring! Can you believe it? The days are getting longer, the sun a little warmer. Soon these branches will be bursting with leaves, and the best darn buffet of bugs a bird could ask for will be back in action. Gotta get that nest ready though, prime location by the old oak, perfect for morning sun. But wait, the feeder by the window, that family just refills it constantly, tempting… maybe a two-nest strategy?

    Then there’s the courting! Gotta find a mate with the flashiest tail feathers, strong enough to help gather twigs. Oh, and the perfect chirping tune, can’t forget that! Maybe I should practise that new whistle now… wait, what was I thinking? Nest building first, then wooing! Priorities, priorities! (I do like a bit of wooing though.)

    (Takes a deep breath) Okay, okay, calm down. One thing at a time. But seriously, gotta get started soon, don’t want to be late for the wormfest! Maybe a quick nap after all… just a short one, I promise!

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  • Dawn Unveils

    Dawn Unveils

    Silent companions,
    Lost in the haze of morning,
    Bound by unseen ties.

    Anthony
    Two Hares
    Ah, the possibilities

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    As the misty veil of dawn begins to lift, two hares materialise in the midst of a field of bluebells, their forms emerging from the swirling fog like apparitions from another realm. With no recollection of how they came to be, the hares find themselves surrounded by a serene landscape, the air heavy with the scent of dew-kissed flowers.

    Confusion grips the hares as they take in their surroundings, their senses heightened by the enigmatic mist that envelops them. They exchange wary glances, their instincts tingling with a mixture of apprehension and wonder at their sudden appearance in this new world.

    As they tentatively explore their new environment, the hares feel a strange connection between them, an invisible thread that binds their fates together. Though they may be strangers to one another, they find solace in each other’s presence, drawing strength from the silent companionship that bridges the gap between them.

    With each step they take, the hares become acutely aware of the pulse of life that thrums beneath the surface of the world around them, the rhythm of nature echoing in their hearts. Though they may not yet understand the purpose behind their arrival, they feel a sense of anticipation stirring within them, a whisper of destiny calling them forward into the unknown.

    As the sun breaks through the mist, casting its warm glow upon the field of bluebells, the two hares stand poised on the threshold of discovery, ready to embrace the adventure that lies ahead. In this moment of infinite possibility, they surrender themselves to the whims of fate, knowing that whatever trials may await them, they will face them together, bound by the unbreakable bond of kinship and courage.

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  • Verse of the Night

    Verse of the Night

    Celestial poets
    Nightingales and blossoms dance
    In nocturnal light

    Anthony
    Nightingale and apricot blossom

    Amidst the moonlit embrace of silken night, the nightingales awaken, their melodic cadence echoing through the shadows of darkness. Each note, a delicate brushstroke on the void of silence, betraying the secrets of the sleeping world.

    Beneath the celestial glow, plum blossoms unfurl their ivory petals, a silent ballet in the moon’s tender spotlight. Their fragrance, a murmured promise of spring, mingles with the nightingales’ song, creating a sensation of timeless enlightenment.

    In this nocturnal ballet, the nightingales become poets, and the plum blossoms, muses. Together, they dance in the realm of dreams, where the fragrance of blossoms lingers in the air like verses penned by nature’s hand.

    As the nightingale serenades the sleeping earth, the plum blossom nods in silent approval, its delicate branches swaying harmoniously with the celestial melody. A nocturne of nature unfolds, a tale told in trills, warbles and gently whispering petals.

    Under the watchful gaze of the moon, the nightingales and plum blossoms become ephemeral poets, crafting verses that only the nocturnal hearts can decipher. In this moonlit reverie, their delicate partnership paints the night with the hues of beauty and quiet resilience.

    And so, the nightingales and plum blossoms remain intertwined in the embrace of the night, a celestial dance that unfolds when the world slumbers, leaving behind a poetic enchantment that lingers until the first light of dawn.

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