Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: plants

  • The Bird Who Became colour

    The Bird Who Became colour

    On the crooked branch of an old persimmon tree, two birds sat. Above them, the sky hummed with the thick silence that comes before rain. Below, the world stretched out in its tangled changing vastness — branches pushing into the air, rivers pulling toward the sea, everything moving, endlessly moving.

    Coloured in

    The older bird sat still, though her stillness was not absence but fullness, like a pebble on a riverbed. Her feathers flickered as the light moved through the leaves: verdigrised copper, smoldering reds, gold like old coins freshly dug from the heavy earth. Beside her, the younger bird shifted restlessly, her lines barely holding their shape. Her body was not feather but form, a sketch in soft charcoal, smudged at the edges where rain or doubt had touched her. She stared down at her faint chest, as hollow as a question half-asked. 

    “Mother,” she said suddenly, sharply, her voice like the crack of a twig snapping underfoot. “When will I have feathers like yours?” Her gaze darted toward her mother’s chest, to that molten glow of red-gold plumage. Her own outline flickered faintly, like breath on glass. “I’m tired of being incomplete.” 

    Her mother did not turn at first. She watched the wind, the movement of invisible things. She watched the unseen, as mothers often do. Then she shifted her gaze to her child, her eyes dark and soft as old ink. 

    “You think I was born like this?” she asked quietly, though there was no question in her voice. She lifted her wings, slowly, and they caught the light like embers stirred in ash. “These colours were not mine. They came to me. Rain gave me the gray. The sun laid gold on my back. The berries left their red behind. All of it stayed.” She lowered her wings, slow as the setting sun. 

    The pencil bird frowned, running her beak down her delicate frame, as if she could draw herself maor fully into the world. “But how?” she asked, her eyes wide and sharp with hunger. “How did it stay?” 

    Her mother turned fully now to her child, gaze like stone, gaze like earth, gaze like home. “I didn’t chase it,” she said. “I stayed. The storm comes. You stay. The sun burns. You stay. The world scratches at you with its teeth and thorns, but still, you stay.” Her beak tapped lightly against the bark of the branch. “You let it mark you.” 

    The faint bird flinched. *Let it mark me?* She glanced down at her pale, clean outline. There was nothing on her, nothing in her, but faint graphite lines. The world had not touched her. She had not let it. 

    “Fly,” her mother said, with the softness of rain before it falls. 

    “Where?” the juvenile bird asked, eyes darting upward to the open, terrifying sky. 

    “Anywhere.” 

    “And if I get lost?” 

    Her mother leaned closer, so close the faint breath of her voice swept across her daughter’s hollow cheek. “You will,” she said. “That is the only way you’ll know where you are.” 

    The child blinked, heart sharp and wild as a drumbeat. She glanced up at the vast, open sky, so full of directionless blue, then down at her faint, brittle wings. Her breath came fast and tight. *But I’m not ready,* she thought. *I’m still a sketch. I’ll disappear out there.* 

    But her mother had already tucked her beak into her chest, as though she had seen this all before and had said what needed to be said. 

    So the pencil bird spread her thin, hollow wings and leapt. 


    At first, it was bliss. The wind held her like a string cradles a kite. The sun dripped warmth down her back. *This is it,* she thought, turning in wide arcs, her shadow a pale outline below her. *This is what it means to fly.* She flew harder, faster, slicing through the air like a blade, her heart thudding with the thrill of it. *If I just keep flying, I’ll become real.* 

    But the world does not let anyone fly unmarked. 

    The clouds gathered with the heavy, aching slowness of something inevitable. At first, they were soft as wool, but soon they grew dense, sharp-edged, swollen with their own weight. The air thickened. The first drop of rain hit her back like a stone. Then another. Then hundreds. 

    *Go back,* she thought. *Go back to the branch. You’ll be ruined.* Her wings trembled. Her outline blurred, as though the rain was an eraser working her out of the world. She was dissolving, line by line, stroke by stroke. The old fear rose in her: *I will vanish.* 

    Her mother’s voice echoed through the storm, her voice like a huge murmuration of starling filling the air: *Don’t run from the storms.* 

    So she didn’t. She flew straight into the rain, her body battered by drops that felt like knives. Her wings shuddered. Her heart thudded in her head louder than the thunder. She thought she might fall. But she didn’t. She didn’t. 

    When she emerged from the storm, she landed on the branch of a cedar tree, breath heaving, wings shaking. She looked down at herself, expecting to see ruin, expecting to see the faint, hollow outline of a bird erased from existence. But there, on her back, was a streak of silver-gray, soft as the edge of a storm cloud. 

    *This wasn’t here before.* 

    She touched it, ran her beak over it. It didn’t smear. It stayed. 

    Time passed. It always does.

    The days that followed were not kind. The sun baked her back until she felt her wings would burn away. Hunger gnawed at her until her chest ached, and when she landed near a thorny Briar, the thorns clawed at her wings. She bit into the wrong berry first — bitter, sharp, unbearable. She spat it out. But the next berry was sweet as honey. The red juice stained her beak, dripped down her chest. She wiped it away, but a faint rust-coloured mark stayed. 

    The sun gave her heat. The berries gave her red. The thorns gave her scars. 

    She flew beneath a hawk’s shadow, and when she escaped, her wing throbbed from the rake of its claws. The mark it left was not a wound. It was a line — faint, blue-black, permanent. 

    *When did I change?* she thought, glancing at herself one day. Her chest was no longer hollow. Her wings no longer weightless. The sketch of her was gone. Instead, she was filled with colour — shadow-gray, storm-blue, berry-red, thorn-black. She had not asked for any of it. But it had come to her all the same. 

    *This is what she meant.* 

    One evening, she returned to the persimmon tree. Her landing was sharp, deliberate, her wings folding in tight with the precision of something that has been tested. Her mother glanced up, gaze steady as ever. 

    “Back so soon?” her mother asked, eyes filled with quiet knowing. 

    The young bird glanced at her wings, her chest, her tail. She hadn’t realized it, but she no longer looked away from herself. Her feathers were no longer faint. No longer hollow. They were full, heavy with shadow and flame, earth and ash. She felt the weight of them, but it was not a burden. It was the weight of being real. 

    Her mother turned to face her fully now, tilting her head as if inspecting something distant and beautiful. 

    “Look at you,” she said softly. Her voice was full of something like pride, but older, deeper. Something like recognition. 

    The young bird flexed her wings. She saw it now — not just the colour but the story it told. The silver of the storm. The red of the berries. The blue of the hawk’s shadow. Her eyes burned, but not with tears. She could feel it all at once — the weight of the storm, the taste of the berries, the ache of the thorns — everything that had ever touched her was still with her, in her, as vivid as flame. 

    Her mother leaned in close, her beak at her cheek. “Welcome back,” she whispered. 

    They sat side by side as the sun spilled itself across the sky, orange into red, red into gold, gold into night. Their feathers caught the light as it passed, both of them burning softly in its glow. 

    Her mother’s eyes closed, content. The young bird glanced down at her chest once more, at the colours she had not chased but gathered, each one a mark of having stayed. 

    Her chest was not hollow anymore. And in that moment, she knew it never had been.

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  • The Sweetness of Passing Time

    The Sweetness of Passing Time

    Apples cling to trees,
    autumn whispers through the leaves—
    seasons come and go.

    Apples
    Bunch of apples

    The apples hung low on the branches, their skins turning from pale green to a mellow blush of red, redolent ripe with the promise of sweetness, blushing from the kiss of the quiet light of the autumn sun. I stood beneath the tree, the dry leaves crunching softly beneath my feet, and watched them sway in the breeze. Something about the way they moved—imperceptibly, almost indifferently—reminded me of memories I couldn’t quite place. Memories of someone’s laughter, or perhaps a voice I had once known but now couldn’t recall. 

    Apples
    Two apples

    Autumn has a way of drawing out things you thought you had forgotten. The chill in the air, the dimming of the days—it all makes you more aware of endings. And ripening apples, hanging heavy and full of sweetness, seem like tiny worlds suspended in time, caught between what they are and what they will inevitably become. 

    I reached out to touch one, its skin smooth but cool, like the cheek of someone you’ve grown distant from. It resisted, its stem holding firm, as though it wasn’t ready to leave its place. Or maybe it was me who wasn’t ready. Letting go is always harder than holding on, even when the time has come. 

    The tree stood there, unmoving, even as the wind rattled its branches. Its roots were buried deep in the earth, unseen but steady, holding the weight of its fruit with an almost silent dignity. I envied that—the ability to endure, to remain grounded while everything else around it began to slip away. 

    I thought about how these apples would eventually fall. Some would land gently in the grass, their sweetness savored by those who found them. Others would bruise and rot, sinking back into the earth without anyone noticing. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, the tree would keep growing, season after season, its branches reaching for the sky, shedding its leaves with each passing autumn, only to grow anew.

    Standing there, I felt something sharp but fleeting pass through me—like the sudden scent of smoke from a far-off fire, or the way a song can remind you of someone who’s gone. It was a kind of loneliness, but not the painful kind. More like the kind you learn to carry with you, like an old photograph folded neatly in your pocket. 

    I let my hand fall away from the apple and stepped back, the cold air stinging my face. The tree swayed again, and I could hear the faint sound of a bird in the distance. Somewhere beyond the horizon, winter was waiting, but for now, the apples were still ripening, holding their place in the world for just a little while longer. And that, I thought, was all they needed to be.

    I’m in Hereford with my dad at the moment, surrounded by plenty of apples. Back in Pembrokeshire, where I’m from, they’re much rarer—the weather just doesn’t suit them. What kinds of crops grow best where you are?

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  • A Snapshot of Welsh Tranquility

    A Snapshot of Welsh Tranquility

    Wales in stillness breathes,
    Sheep beneath the twisted tree,
    Time folds into now.

    Sheep, Stones, and Sunlight

    There is a moment in every journey where time seems to pause. For me, it happened in the quiet Welsh countryside, where a simple sheep under a gnarled tree stopped me in my tracks. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of moss and bracken, and the landscape stretched wide, untamed yet inviting. This single, unassuming scene—of stone walls, dappled sunlight, and the curious gaze of an animal—felt like a distillation of everything Wales represents. 

    The sheep, a quintessential emblem of this land, stood framed by a spindly tree that clung to the rocky ground. It had the air of an accidental guardian, standing atop ancient stones as if overseeing a realm where history, nature, and humanity blend seamlessly. It didn’t flee or flinch when I approached with my camera, just watched with an intensity that made me feel like the visitor I was. And in that exchange, wordless and fleeting, I felt an unexpected sense of calm. 

    It’s easy to rush through life, ticking off sights and experiences like items on a to-do list. But here, in this quiet moment, I was reminded of the value of stillness. Of the beauty in ordinary things. The lichen-covered stones beneath the sheep’s hooves hinted at stories far older than mine—walls built by hands long gone, dividing fields that have seen generations of life. The sunlight filtering through the tree branches cast shifting patterns on the ground, a reminder of time’s gentle, inevitable flow. 

    Wales has a way of grounding you. Its hills and valleys aren’t just landscapes; they’re vessels of memory. The sheep, as ubiquitous as they are, embody this spirit. They are not just creatures grazing absentmindedly—they are part of the rhythm of the land, living symbols of its enduring character. 

    As I walked away from the scene, I felt lighter. The world seemed a little quieter, my thoughts a little clearer. That single sheep, perched on its stone stage, had given me something unexpected: perspective. It reminded me that not all moments need to be grand to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s in the simplest of scenes that we find what we didn’t know we were looking for. 

    And that’s the magic of Wales—a place where even the smallest details invite you to slow down, look closer, and feel more deeply.

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  • The grounding ground.

    The grounding ground.

    Basil, mint, and thyme—
    scent of soil and sunlight’s warmth,
    roots finding their way.

    Hands deep in the earth, I feel the quiet pulse of life beat beneath my fingers—a slow, steady rhythm that grounds me in a way few things do. Roots twist below, unseen threads tying me to this moment, reminding me that sometimes the most meaningful connections are the ones you can’t quite see. In the green silence around me, everything slows. I breathe with the soil, the earthy scent filling my lungs as if I’m taking in the very essence of the garden itself.

    Sunlight warms my skin, each ray another gentle reminder that life continues, grows, even when no one’s watching. There’s a comfort in the hum of it all: the small, tireless work of nature happening at its own perfect pace. My thoughts start to settle, sinking down into the soil with the roots, each breath drawing me deeper into the present. Here, lost in this quiet rhythm, I feel whole, as if I, too, am planted right where I’m meant to be.

    Bare feet touch the grass,
    the hum of soil grounding me—
    sunlight warms my skin.

    What garden have you got and how does it help you.

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  • Reconnection

    Reconnection

    **INTERNAL. A DIMLY LIT ROOM – DAY**

    *The scene opens in a small, nondescript room. The light is weak, coming through the window in streaks, casting long shadows on the floor. It feels claustrophobic, stagnant. The only sound is a distant murmur, like the hum of a world just out of reach.*

    Honeysuckle?

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”I want you to feel lost, like you’re floating inside your own mind but disconnected from everything around you. The room doesn’t exist to you yet—it’s just a blur. Your movements should be slow, like you’re trying to find your footing but can’t quite feel the ground beneath you. We’re capturing the absence of feeling, of life. You’re here, but not really.”_

    —

    *The actor stands in the centre of the room, eyes distant, unfocused. They sway slightly, as if the weight of the air around them is too much to bear. Their hands hang loosely by their sides, fingers twitching but not grasping anything. The world is silent to them, void.*

    —

    **CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP OF THEIR EYES.**

    *The camera focuses on the actor’s eyes, wide but unfocused, glazed over as if nothing can penetrate the walls they’ve built around themselves.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”Your eyes should tell us everything, but they won’t just yet. We need to see the absence first, the numbness. You’re searching for something, but you don’t even know what it is yet. Let them feel the emptiness.”_

    —

    *The actor blinks, slowly. It’s the first real movement, subtle but intentional. As if something, just barely, is reaching them from the outside. They close their eyes, but not to shut the world out. It’s almost a surrender, an invitation.*

    —

    **CUT TO: THE SOUND OF LEAVES RUSTLING OUTSIDE.**

    *The camera lingers on the window, where trees sway in the wind. The sound is faint, but persistent.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The sound of the leaves is important. It’s the first sign of life, something beyond the noise in your head. It’s soft, gentle. You’re going to hear it, and it will bring you back—just a little. Just enough to remind you that the world is still there, waiting.”_

    —

    *The actor’s head tilts slightly, catching the sound. Their expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a furrow of the brow. They blink again, as if testing the space between them and the noise. The tension in their shoulders loosens, but only just.*

    —

    **CLOSE-UP OF THEIR HANDS.**

    *Their fingers twitch again, this time with purpose. They reach out, running fingertips along the arm of the chair they’ve been standing beside, feeling its texture for the first time. It’s rough, worn. Real.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”This is the beginning of your reconnection. The chair represents something solid in your life—maybe a memory, maybe a part of yourself you’d forgotten was there. The sensation of touch will ground you, pull you back into your body. Let your fingers move slowly, deliberately. It’s not just the chair you’re feeling; it’s everything you’ve been missing.”_

    —

    *The actor closes their hand around the arm of the chair, their grip tightening. Their breath catches in their chest, shallow but sharp, like they’ve just remembered how to breathe again. For a moment, their eyes flicker with recognition, but it fades.*

    —

    **CUT TO: THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS IN THE DISTANCE.**

    *The room is still, but the actor can hear faint footsteps echoing outside the door. They turn slightly, listening. Their heart rate picks up, their pulse quickening.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The footsteps represent the outside world—people, responsibilities, life moving on without you. It’s overwhelming at first, but you don’t shy away from it this time. You listen. Let the sound bring both anxiety and a strange sense of relief. You’re waking up, but it’s disorienting.”_

    —

    *The actor’s body tenses. They take a step toward the door, hesitant but drawn by the sound. Their breathing is uneven, shallow. For a moment, it seems like they might turn away, retreat back into themselves. But they don’t.*

    —

    **CUT TO: A BOWL OF FRUIT ON THE TABLE.**

    *The camera zooms in on a single orange, sitting in the bowl on the table. The vibrant colour contrasts with the drabness of the room, its scent faint but sweet.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The orange is your next anchor. The colour, the scent, the texture—it represents life, nourishment, something outside of your internal chaos. You’ll reach for it, but slowly, as if you’re afraid of it. The smell will be the first thing to hit you, something real and sharp enough to cut through the fog.”_

    —

    *The actor approaches the table, their movements still tentative. They hover over the bowl, staring at the orange like it holds some kind of secret. Their hand moves slowly, shaking slightly, before they finally pick it up. They lift it to their nose, inhaling deeply. Their eyes close, and for a moment, they are somewhere else entirely.*

    —

    **CLOSE-UP OF THEIR FACE.**

    *The actor’s lips part slightly, as if they are about to speak, but no words come. They roll the orange between their palms, feeling its weight, its texture. Their fingers sink into the peel, releasing the scent more fully.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”This is a moment of reconnection, but it’s bittersweet. The orange symbolises vitality, but also the realisation of what you’ve been missing. You’re feeling again, but with that comes an ache—an awareness that you’ve been absent from your own life.”_

    —

    *The actor peels the orange slowly, their fingers sticky with juice. They take a small bite, savouring the taste. A slow smile flickers at the corner of their mouth, but it fades almost as quickly as it appears. They’re not ready to fully embrace the world yet, but they’re closer. The taste reminds them that they’re alive.*

    —

    **FINAL SHOT: THE WINDOW, FULLY OPEN NOW.**

    *The wind blows through the open window, rustling the curtains. The light is warmer, softer. Outside, the trees sway, and the hum of the world feels closer, more tangible.*

    **Director’s Notes:**
    _”The window is open now. You’ve let the world in, but only a little. There’s still distance, but you’re beginning to rejoin life. This moment should feel like the first real breath of fresh air you’ve had in ages. You’re not healed, but you’re healing. It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s there.”_

    —

    *The actor moves toward the window, standing just at the edge of the sunlight streaming in. They pause, breathing deeply. Their shoulders relax fully for the first time. The sound of the leaves, the wind, the distant life outside—it’s all there, waiting. And for the first time, they’re ready to step back into it.*

    —

    **Director’s Final Notes:**
    _”You’re still on the edge, but you’re not lost anymore. The world is starting to make sense again through the sounds, smells, and textures around you. Let this final scene be about hope—quiet, uncertain hope. You’re feeling everything now, but you’re okay with it. You’re starting to trust the world again, piece by piece.”_

    —

    **FADE TO BLACK.**

    Its a mist-tree
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  • Grafting Tomatoes:

    Grafting Tomatoes:

    The Art of Combining Flavours and Strength

    Last year, I decided to dive into the world of grafting tomatoes, eager to blend the best qualities of different varieties. With a passion for gardening and a bit of curiosity, I chose Alicante for its exceptional flavour and Estamino for its sturdy roots. Little did I know that this hands-on experience would not only enhance my garden but also deepen my appreciation for the art of growing tomatoes. Join me as I walk you through what I did.

    Visual Steps of the Grafting Process

    If you’re looking to elevate your home gardening game, grafting tomatoes is a fantastic technique to explore. Not only does it allow you to combine the best traits of two different varieties, but it also gives you the chance to experiment with flavours and resilience. In this guide, we’ll delve into the essentials of grafting, focusing on the popular Alicante variety for its delicious fruit and Estamino for its sturdy root system.

    So, what exactly is grafting? At its core, grafting is a method that involves joining two plants together so they grow as one. The top part of the graft, known as the **scion**, is where the desired fruit variety comes from—in this case, Alicante. The bottom part is the **rootstock**, which provides the roots and is often selected for its hardiness or resistance to diseases. By combining these two, you can create a plant that boasts the fantastic flavour of Alicante tomatoes while benefiting from the robust nature of Estamino roots.

    Begin by selecting a strong Estamino plant, about 10 to 15 cm tall. Using your knife, make a clean cut V, about 5 cm above the soil line. This cut should be smooth, as it encourages healing. Next, turn your attention to the Alicante variety. Look for a stem that matches the rootstock’s thickness and cut it at the same angle. Aim for a length of about 5 to 10 cm, ensuring you have a couple of leaf nodes.

    With your scion and rootstock prepared, it’s time to join them together. Align the cut surfaces so they’re touching; this is vital for the graft to take. Secure the graft using a grafting clip or tape—make sure it’s tight enough to hold them in place. If you want to give your graft the best chance, consider placing a plastic bag or humidity dome over it to maintain moisture. If you’re doing multiple grafts, don’t forget to label them to avoid confusion later on!

    After you’ve set everything up, place your grafted plants in a warm, sheltered spot but keep them out of direct sunlight for a little while. This helps reduce stress on the graft. Within a week or so, check the graft site for signs of new growth. If you see some, congratulations! Your graft has taken. After about two to three weeks, you can gently remove the grafting clips or tape.

    Once your grafted plants are looking strong and have a few leaves, they’re ready to be transplanted into larger pots or directly into your garden. Watching them grow and produce delicious Alicante tomatoes, all thanks to the sturdy roots of Estamino, is incredibly rewarding.

    As with any gardening technique, a bit of patience and observation goes a long way. Grafting is an art that takes practice, but the rewards—vibrant, healthy tomatoes with fantastic flavour—are well worth the effort. So why not give it a go? Happy grafting, and may your garden thrive

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  • Musings on Man and Nature

    Musings on Man and Nature

    Human heart connects,
    With nature’s rhythm, a bond,
    As one, beauty shines.

    The sun, a golden orb, painted the sky with hues of orange and pink as we strolled through the dew-kissed meadow. Blades of grass, tall and emerald, swayed gently in the morning breeze, their tips shimmering with tiny droplets of water. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the distant chirping of birds.

    See on TikTok

    As we walked, we pondered the complex and often contentious relationship between humans and the natural world. We discussed the ethical implications of our actions, from the exploitation of resources to the destruction of habitats. It was a delicate balance, we agreed, one that required careful consideration and a deep respect for all living things.

    Yet, amidst the challenges and complexities, there was a profound beauty to be found in nature. The intricate patterns of a spider’s web, the majestic flight of a hawk, the vibrant colours of a butterfly – each and every aspect of the natural world was a demonstration of  the wonder and diversity of life.

    We marvelled at the way the sunlight danced upon the blades of grass, creating a mesmerising spectacle of light and shadow. We listened to the symphony of sounds that filled the meadow, from the buzzing of bees to the rustling of leaves. And we felt a sense of peace and tranquillity as we connected with the rhythms of nature.

    It was a moment of profound reflection, a time to appreciate the fragility of our planet and the importance of preserving its beauty for future generations. As we continued our walk, we carried with us a renewed sense of wonder and a commitment to living in harmony with the natural world.

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  • Trapped in a red dream

    Trapped in a red dream

    In a world of red;
    Fragments of a dream undone,
    Nowhere leads to home.

    Red rose
    Whispers of Scarlet

    I’m… somewhere, though I can’t tell where. Black. Red. That’s all there is. Not a sound, not really, just the echo of my own footsteps… or are they even mine? It doesn’t matter. I blink and—there it is, again—the red rose. Again. Too perfect, too bright. It shouldn’t be here, but it is. Silky petals, so soft they must be fake, almost glowing, bleeding their colour into the air around them. No thorns. Why no thorns? A rose should have thorns. It feels wrong… out of place. Is it floating? I can’t tell. Maybe it’s me who’s floating. My hand stretches out to touch it—wait, no. That’s not right. Something shifts, jerks my focus.

    Red rose without thorns;
    Floating in the blackened air,
    Too soft to be real.

    Hawthorn red berries
    Nature’s Crimson Cascade

    Red berries. They dangle, sway just slightly, so red, like drops of blood frozen mid-fall. They don’t belong here. Hawthorn berries? Yeah, yeah that’s what they are. Why are they here? Hanging. Waiting. I want to pluck one, taste it maybe, but—no. Not safe. They look like they’d taste like iron. Bitterness. Do berries even taste like iron? I don’t know. I think… maybe they do. They shimmer in the dark, this glossy red, almost inviting. A trap. Gotta keep moving.

    Hawthorn berries hang;
    Blood drops frozen in the dark,
    Bitter in the night.

    Crimson red silk cloth
    Veil of Crimson Dreams

    Something brushes past me—smooth, too smooth. It’s red too. It’s silk. A cloth, red silk, draping down from… from where? Can’t see the top. It’s just there, like a curtain, but no stage, no audience. It shifts, barely. Touching it feels like slipping into a memory I can’t quite catch. I try to hold onto the thought, but it slips away, just like the cloth. It’s gone. It’s still here, but gone. Don’t ask me how. My fingers are empty now, though.

    Red silk softly falls;
    Whispers of a fading dream,
    Slips away from touch.

    Red maple leaf - acer
    Autumnal Ember

    The path, if it’s a path, dark, black, empty. Then… then there’s this leaf. A red maple leaf. Still, like it’s been pressed flat between the pages of a book I can’t read. But I see it. I see it clear. The veins in the leaf look like cracks, tiny, sharp cracks splitting through the red. Red. Of course, it’s red. That’s all there is. But why this leaf? Why now? It’s autumn, I think. Or maybe not. I forget. It’s too perfect, like the rose, but this one feels colder. Fragile. It’s waiting for something. For me? I don’t know.

    Maple leaf in red;
    Cracks spreading through quiet veins,
    Fragile autumn waits.

    I’m still walking, I think, though maybe I’m not…

    What kind of dream world would you like to visit?

    Hi, anyone still with me to the end, can you let me know if my feature image of the silk cloth appears at the top of the post. I think I’m having problems with it being displayed.

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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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  • Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Mist veils the pathway,
    Through shadows and uncertainty,
    We walk with purpose.

    Anthony
    What Lies Ahead

    As you stand at the entrance of that narrow path, shrouded in mist, each step forward feels like a leap into the unknown. The trees, towering like guardians, whisper ancient secrets as their branches reach out, creating a canopy that obscures the sky above. The long grass brushes against your legs, concealing the ground beneath, reminding you of the uncertainties that lie ahead.

    In this monochromatic world, devoid of color, every shadow holds a mystery, every rustle a potential revelation. As you venture deeper into the mist, the path ahead seems to both beckon and challenge, drawing you onward with the promise of discovery while testing your resolve with its ambiguity.

    Just as in life, this journey through the unknown is not without its obstacles. The uneven ground beneath your feet reminds you of the unpredictability of the terrain ahead, while the twisting branches of the trees force you to navigate through their maze-like embrace. Yet, with each obstacle overcome, you grow stronger, more resilient, and more prepared to face whatever lies ahead.

    As the mist envelops you, obscuring the path behind and the destination ahead, you realize that this journey is not about reaching a specific endpoint but rather about embracing the experience of exploration and growth. Just as the path disappears into the mist, so too does the future remain veiled in uncertainty, waiting for you to step forward and carve your own path through the unknown.

    And so, with each step forward, you embrace the journey, knowing that while the destination may remain elusive, the beauty and richness of the experience lie in the journey itself. For it is in the midst of uncertainty that we truly discover who we are and what we are capable of, finding strength in the face of adversity and wisdom in the embrace of the unknown.

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