Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: Wales

  • 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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  • Wasted in Stagnation

    Wasted in Stagnation

    River flows away,
    Yet I linger, bound by sludge,
    Wasted, still, unseen.

    How do I even begin to explain it? I feel like a boat—one built to cut through waves, to explore uncharted waters, to sail under the open sky with the wind pushing me forward. I was designed to move, to journey, to experience life in all its unpredictability. But here I am, rotting in the mud at the side of the river, stuck in the stagnant shallows while the current of life rushes by without me.

    It’s infuriating. I’m meant to be out there, feeling the pull of the tide, facing storms and basking in the sunlight on my deck. But instead, I’m trapped in this pit of muck, with nothing but decay around me, sinking deeper into the filth. My hull was once sleek, my sails full of promise, but now? Now I’m just a forgotten vessel, rusted and brittle, abandoned to the elements.

    The river flows past, mocking me with every ripple. I should be part of that, navigating its twists and turns, but I’m stuck on the sidelines, watching as life carries on without me. Every day that passes is another day lost, another opportunity wasted, another inch deeper into this miserable sludge.

    I feel the weight of it all, the heaviness pressing down on me, and it’s suffocating. The dreams, the plans, the purpose—they’re all still there, buried deep inside, but they’re smothered by this mire that’s holding me back. It’s not that I’ve lost my will; it’s that I’m being choked by this godforsaken mud, this unrelenting stagnation.

    I wasn’t made for this! I wasn’t built to rot away in some forgotten corner, becoming part of the landscape of failure. But here I am, powerless against the relentless drag of this miserable place. It’s like being betrayed by your own potential, knowing you were meant for so much more but being held back by forces you can’t control, by circumstances that refuse to let you go.

    I’m angry—angry at the mud, angry at the river for carrying on without me, and most of all, angry at myself for not finding a way to break free. Because I know I was meant to sail, to thrive, to conquer the open waters of life. But instead, I’m left here to decay, to watch the world pass me by while I waste away in this stagnant, suffocating bog.

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  • A postcard with a real breeze

    A postcard with a real breeze

    Candy-colored homes,
    Softly leaning toward the sea,
    Memories linger.

    Tenby South Beach

    Tenby. Charming? Yes. Confusing? Also, yes. Imagine, if you will, a seaside town that’s part postcard, part labyrinth. Pastel houses, almost edible. Like candy. But taller.

    Wander. That’s the word. Wander through streets where every turn leads to something… unexpected. A fisherman’s cottage here, a mediaeval wall there. And did someone say castle? Oh yes, that too. Perched on a rock, casually guarding the coastline, as if to say, “Oh, this old thing? Just a relic from another era.”

    Beaches—plural, of course. They couldn’t just have one. North Beach, with its perfect arc. South Beach, more of a rebel, stretching out like it owns the place. Sand? Golden. Water? Blue enough to make you question reality. And the island! You can walk to it. St. Catherine’s, with a fort that’s seen better days. But who hasn’t?

    Ice cream. You’ll need it. Flavours you didn’t know existed, like “mango fruit ice” that tastes suspiciously like happiness. Don’t ask why, just go with it. And fish and chips. Obviously. Somewhere, a seagull plots to steal them. You’ve been warned.

    Shops. Cute ones. With things you don’t need but will buy. A pirate hat? Sure. A painted rock? Why not? Everything smells like saltwater and sunscreen. Or is that just nostalgia?

    Boat trip? Absolutely. Choppy seas, a mysterious island where  monks create perfumes from the furze bushes, and seals that pop up like they’re in on some joke you’ll never understand. Laugh anyway. It’s contagious.

    Tenby. Tiny streets, larger-than-life personality. Just when you think you’ve figured it out—bam! A secret garden or a pub that’s been there since forever. You’re not lost, you’re discovering.

    And then, there’s the sky at sunset. All fiery and dramatic, as if Tenby needed more character. You could watch it forever—or at least until your ice cream melts. Decisions, decisions.

    Leave? Eventually. But not without wondering if it was all real. Or just a very detailed, very enjoyable dream.

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  • A Raven’s Call

    A Raven’s Call

    Black wings cut the sky,
    Whispers from the shadow’s edge,
    Light fades, truth takes flight.

    Lightless eyes see all.

    “Ah, there you are, wandering in the light, so blissfully unaware of the shadows lurking just beyond your reach. I see you, human, with your fragile flesh and feeble spirit, clinging to the sun’s warmth as if it could save you. But what is light without darkness? What is warmth without the cold? Your world is a fleeting illusion, a brittle shell that will crack and crumble with the passing of time.

    Come closer, yes, closer still. You’ve seen me before, perched on the edge of your vision, haven’t you? A flash of black feathers, a caw that echoes in your dreams, a fleeting shadow that sends a shiver down your spine. You tell yourself it’s just a bird, nothing more. But I am more. Oh, so much more.

    Caw in the cold night,
    Shadows beckon from the trees,
    Darkness holds the key.

    The light, it blinds you, dulls your senses, keeps you soft and weak. You stumble through your days, oblivious to the truth, content in your ignorance. But I can show you what lies beyond the veil. I can guide you to the darkness where true power lies. There, in the cold embrace of shadow, you will see the world as it truly is—without the lies, without the masks.

    Do you hear it? The whisper in the wind, the rustling in the trees, the soft cawing in the night? That’s the call of the dark, the ancient song of the forgotten and the forsaken. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The tug at your heart, the pull of something deeper, something darker. It’s been with you all along, growing stronger with each passing day, each sleepless night.

    Come to the dark side, human. Embrace the cold, the shadow, the truth. Let the light fade from your eyes and see the world as I do—sharp, clear, free of the lies and illusions that bind you. In the darkness, you will find power. In the shadows, you will find freedom. And in the cold, you will find me.

    I will be waiting for you, in the place where light fears to tread. When you’re ready, when you’ve had enough of the lies, come find me. Together, we will soar into the night, into the darkness that has been calling your name since the day you were born.”

    Raven over Wales
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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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  • Beyond the White Veil

    Beyond the White Veil

    The author tapped their pen against the worn notebook, frowning at the blank page. Outside, the hills of west Wales slumbered in an afternoon lull. They were supposed to be writing about wild hills, about the way the mist rolled in, swallowing everything whole. But the words wouldn’t come. Was it because the real hills outside looked so tame, bathed in a weak spring sunshine? Or was it because the very idea of writing about the wildness, the untamed nature of the world, felt utterly inauthentic?

    Preseli Hills, Pembrokeshire, Wales

    Pen searches for truth,
    Wild landscape in the mind blooms,
    More real than the mist.

    Anthony

    In the fictional world they were trying to build, the mist rolled in with a purpose, a living entity driven by some unknown force. It wasn’t the kind of mist that rolled in most afternoons, shrouding the valleys in a milky haze. This mist was hungry, it devoured the landscape whole, leaving only the skeletal outlines of trees and the ghosts of forgotten ruins.

    But here, in the real world, the mist ambled in, a lazy afterthought of a sea breeze. It did little more than dampen the enthusiasm of the ramblers, forcing them to pull on their waterproofs a little earlier. The author sighed. How could they write about a mist that devoured the world when the most dangerous thing the real mist devoured was a tourist’s picnic plans?

    An idea flickered. What if the wildness wasn’t in the mist itself, but in the way it exposed the wildness within the characters it touched? The author started to write. The first line came easily: “The mist rolled in, uninvited, as it always did.”  This time, the mist wasn’t a malevolent force, but a catalyst. It seeped into the cracks of their lives, revealing the buried anxieties, the unspoken desires. The characters, a young couple on a weekend retreat, found themselves arguing over neglected chores and unspoken resentments, their petty squabbles echoing in the muffled landscape.

    The author smiled. The wildness wasn’t in the mist, but in the way it held up a mirror to the human heart. And perhaps, that was a wilder thing after all.

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  • Ridin’ High

    Ridin’ High

    The sun beat down on me back hot as a blacksmith’s furnace, but I didn’t care a jot. Not today. Today, my legs pumped like pistons, pushin’ that brand new two-wheeler down the dusty lane. My brand new bicycle! It gleamed like a blackbird’s wing in the afternoon light, the handlebars all shiny and the red paint still smellin’ fresh.

    The Old Family

    Da had surprised me with it just that mornin’. Said it was time I had a proper way to get about, seein’ as I was turnin’ twelve come Michaelmas. Now, twelve might not seem like much to some folk in them grand city places, but out here on the farm, it meant you were practically a man already.

    Our cottage, well, it ain’t much to look at in this picture, is it? Patchwork of tin on the roof, holdin’ back the worst of the rain. We don’t got much, Ma says, but what we do have, we make do with. There’s Ma, of course, lookin’ a bit worn ’round the edges these days. Look after five of us, she does, what with Da away workin’ on the big estate most days. And Auntie Gwen, blind in one eye but seeing more than most with the other, her sharp wit keeping us all in line.

    And there’s Gran, lookin’ stern as ever in the picture. Don’t let that fool ya, though. She’s got the softest spot for all of us, especially little Lily there in the middle. My sister, always got her nose in a book. On the other side of me is Elsie, me other sister – tougher than a badger that one, always bossin’ us about.

    But today, none of them mattered. Today, it was just me and this magnificent machine. I whizzed past the chickens scatterin’ like feathers in a gale, then down by the sheep field, pretendin’ I was a knight chargin’ into battle. The wind nearly took my hat, and I could almost taste freedom on my tongue.

    This bicycle wasn’t just some toy, mind you. It was a lifeline. Now I could help Da collect the eggs quicker, maybe even get into town on market days to sell some of Ma’s jams. It was a chance to earn my keep, to be a proper part of this family.

    As the sun begun to set, I looked back at the day and I knew this bicycle was more than just metal and wheels. It was a promise. A promise of a brighter future, of adventures waitin’ just around the bend. And with a wide grin, I pedalled on, my heart light as a feather.

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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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  • 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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  • Frozen Flight of Fancy

    Frozen Flight of Fancy

    White on white, a world subdued,
    Nature’s hush, a solitude.
    Swans like whispers on the stream,
    A frozen dream, a tranquil theme.

    Anthony
    It was a bit chilly

    This image depicts a tranquil scene of two swans gliding gracefully across a wintery river. The artist has captured the elegance of the swans with their long, slender necks and  pristine white feathers. The artist has used  subtle brushstrokes to depict the movement of the water as the swans glide effortlessly through it.

    In the background, the artist has rendered a  detailed landscape of trees laden with snow. The use of a subtle colour palette, with browns and whites, creates a sense of winter’s chill. The artist has  skillfully captured the way the snow  blankets the trees, creating a sense of peace and serenity.

    The use of light and shadow is  reminiscent of  the works of the Dutch Golden Age masters, such as Jan van Eyck or  Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The artist has  used light to  highlight the  whiteness of the swans and the snow,  creating a sense of  calm and tranquillity.

    Overall, the image is a  beautiful and serene portrayal of a winter landscape. The artist has  skillfully captured the elegance of the swans and the beauty of the wintery scene.

    Written by a proper art critic (promise;)

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