Anthony's Literary Lens

Tag: red

  • Roses are red

    Roses are red

    Among the roses, breathing deep and slow,
    I found a peace I never thought to know.
    Each crimson bloom a lesson to impart:
    That beauty heals a once broken heart.

    Red roses

    Sarah clutched the wilted bouquet, her fingers trembling against the cellophane wrapper that had seemed so perfect just hours ago. The thorns pressed against her palm, but she barely noticed the sting. It felt fitting somehow, this small pain, after David’s words had torn through her heart: “I just don’t feel the same way anymore.”

    The botanical garden’s iron gates stood before her, a refuge she hadn’t planned to visit today. She had walked aimlessly after leaving his apartment, and now here she was, standing before the entrance where she and David had shared their first kiss last spring. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

    Inside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the winding paths. She walked without purpose until she found herself in the rose garden, surrounded by hundreds of blooming red roses. Their perfume hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Every flower seemed to mock her, echoing the dozen roses she had presented to David earlier that day, along with her heart.

    “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

    Sarah turned to find an elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat, pruning shears in hand. Her name tag read “Eleanor – Garden Volunteer.”

    “I used to hate them,” Eleanor continued, snipping away at dead heads with practiced ease. “My husband proposed to me with red roses. When he passed away three months later, I couldn’t stand to look at them. But here I am, forty years later, tending to them every Tuesday and Thursday.”

    Something in Eleanor’s voice made Sarah stay. She found herself returning the next week, and the week after that. Eleanor taught her how to deadhead the spent blooms, how to identify the different varieties: ‘Mr. Lincoln,’ ‘Chrysler Imperial,’ ‘Veterans’ Honor.’ Sarah learned that each rose had its own character, its own story.

    Seasons passed. She watched the roses go dormant in winter, helped Eleanor bed them with mulch against the frost. In spring, she witnessed their resurrection, the first tender shoots appearing, the soil still cold with winter’s memory. Summer brought their glory, and autumn their final, fierce blooming.

    The garden became her sanctuary, then her classroom, and finally her joy. She learned that love, like gardening, required patience and care. That beauty could emerge from decay. That endings were also beginnings.

    Five years after that first day, Sarah stood in the rose garden again, this time in a white dress. Her bouquet was a cascade of red roses, each one grown and tended by her own hands. Beside her stood Michael, the landscape architect she had met while taking a botanical illustration class at the garden. Eleanor sat in the front row, beaming beneath her signature wide-brimmed hat.

    As Sarah exchanged her vows, the roses nodded in the gentle breeze, their fragrance no longer a reminder of loss but a celebration of growth. She had learned what Eleanor knew: that sometimes the things that break our hearts can also heal them, if we’re brave enough to let them.

    Years later, as the setting sun painted the garden in shades of amber and gold, Sarah, now the bearer of knowledge at the garden, found a quiet moment to walk among the roses. She touched a velvet petal, remembering the broken-hearted girl who had stumbled into this garden years ago. The roses had taught her that love, like their blooms, was cyclical – that each ending carried within it the seeds of a new beginning.

    She plucked a single perfect bloom and placed it on Eleanor’s empty chair, a thank you for the wisdom shared between the thorny stems. Above her, the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, and somewhere in the garden, a nightingale began to sing.

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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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  • One Love

    One Love

    Morning storms through us,
    Midday scorches, hearts ablaze,
    Nightfall kills the flame.

    In the blue birth of dawn, when the world’s breath first stirs, 
    Our love was born, trembling, a whisper in the darkness. 
    The sky yawned, stretching its arms across the sleeping hills, 
    And in that still moment, our hearts were sewn together 
    With the silver thread of morning’s first light, 
    A bond as fragile and fierce as a spider’s web, 
    Glistening with the dew of promise and desire.

    The sun climbed higher, a golden god upon his throne, 
    And our love grew bold, laughing in the face of time. 
    We danced in the fields of youth, wild and unafraid, 
    Our bodies a blaze of summer’s fire, 
    Burning with the heat of a thousand stolen kisses. 
    Each touch was a spark, each glance a flame, 
    And we roared with the lion’s pride, 
    Believing the day would never end.

    But the sun, weary with its labor, began to sink, 
    And shadows crept across the landscape of our hearts. 
    The light softened, turning gold to amber, 
    And in that quiet hour, we spoke of dreams 
    And fears we’d hidden in the noonday glare. 
    Our love, once a roaring river, now slowed to a stream, 
    Gentle and wise, knowing the path it must follow.

    The evening fell, and with it came the cool embrace 
    Of night’s velvet cloak, wrapping us in its quiet. 
    We lay beneath the stars, our fingers entwined, 
    And the world, once so vast, shrank to the space between us. 
    Our love, now a whisper, echoed in the silence, 
    A lullaby sung to the fading light.

    And in the final moments, as the night claimed the sky, 
    Our love, having lived its day, sighed into sleep. 
    The moon smiled down, a mother to the dreaming earth, 
    And we, two shadows merged into one, 
    Became the night itself, 
    One love, one day, 
    Forever written in the stars.

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  • Crimson Tears

    Crimson Tears

    The scent of lost love,
    Dull roses and thorns remain,
    Dreams float on the wind.

    Anthony Thomas
    I took this photo this afternoon. (It’s in my polytunnel which is why it’s flowering so late)
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    In a garden of memories, red roses stand silent witness to a lost love. Their beauty, once a source of joy, now stirs bittersweet feelings. Each crimson petal carries the weight of a love that unfolded and withered, leaving behind a garden of faded colour and thorns that now prick at the edges of my heart. In their fragrance lingers the ghost of shared dreams. Amidst the sorrow, these roses become a sanctuary and a painful memory that some loves, like petals in the wind, are meant to drift away.

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  • Secrets in the Obsidian Night

    Secrets in the Obsidian Night

    The dimly lit room was suffused with the sultry aura of forbidden secrets, where shadows and whispers danced together in a dark tango. The only source of light was a single table lamp, its feeble glow casting eerie silhouettes on this shabby place. It was in this twilight realm that I first laid eyes on it—a mesmerising image that seemed to hold the key to a thousand mysteries.

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    A piece of cloth, carefully draped across the chair, a piece of red satin against a backdrop of obsidian black. The fabric, a deep ruby red, was intensely alluring, like a siren’s song beckoning the lost souls of the night. Its surface shimmered with subtle undulations, as if it concealed a secret known only to those who dared to gaze upon it long enough. Like secrets of liquid passion that would run through your hands if you tried to embrace them. The black expanse around it was like the void of a starless night, an abyss where desires and secrets conspired.

    I couldn’t help but be drawn to it, my eyes fixated on the satin’s inviting folds. It held an allure that transcended mere fabric—it was desire incarnate, a symbol of passions. I knew that behind this innocent facade lay a world of intrigue, one I was compelled to uncover.

    In front of the chair was a scarred, mahogany desk, surrounded by an assortment of objects that spoke of the room’s absent occupant. An ashtray, filled with half-smoked cigarettes, a tumbler of bourbon, its contents long drained, hinted at a taste for the forbidden. A crumpled letter, bearing cryptic messages in smudged ink, told a story of intrigue and deceit.

    As I stood there, a gust of wind rattled the dusty windowpane, as if the night itself conspired to keep its secrets hidden. This ruby and obsidian gem, now my silent confidante, seemed to beckon me deeper into the shadows, daring me to uncover the mysteries it held.

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  • Silent Battlefield: Poppies Bloom

    Silent Battlefield: Poppies Bloom

    Amidst the silent aftermath of battle, nature’s tears emerge as crimson poppies.

    Anthony
    Taken near Ledbury a few years ago.
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    Amidst the desolation of the battlefield, a lone soldier stood, weary and worn. The deafening crescendo of guns and bombs had finally, like many of his comerades, fallen silent, leaving behind an eerie calm. He gazed across the scarred landscape, where once a sea of mud and destruction reigned.

    As the soldier’s breath hung heavy in the cold, damp air, he noticed a peculiar sight. From the very ground that had soaked up the blood of countless fallen comrades, tiny red poppies began to emerge, like fragile whispers of the departed. They unfurled, their petals delicate yet vibrant, as if nature itself was paying tribute to the sacrifice of so many.

    In the midst of the crimson blooms, the soldier could almost hear the echoes of voices long gone, comrades who had shared their laughter, their fears, and their dreams. The poppies danced in the soft breeze, like the spirits of the fallen, reminding him of the price paid for the fleeting tranquillity that now enveloped the battlefield.

    He reached down to touch one of the poppies, its fragility contrasting with the brutal memories that haunted him. In that simple gesture, he felt a connection to those who had stood beside him, a connection that transcended the horrors of war. The soldier whispered a quiet thank you to the earth for cradling the memories of his fallen comrades, and to the poppies for their silent tribute.

    With tears in his eyes, he knew that the battle of the Somme had left an indelible mark on his soul, a mark that the red poppies would forever represent. And as he walked away from the battlefield, he carried with him the weight of their sacrifice and the hope for a world where the guns and bombs would remain forever silent.

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  • Japanese Maples: A Cultural and Horticultural Treasure

    Japanese Maples: A Cultural and Horticultural Treasure

    The Japanese maple, known as “Acer palmatum” in botanical terms, has a long and rich history in Japan. It is native to Japan, Korea, and China, and its cultivation and appreciation in Japan can be traced back for centuries.

    This tree is looking lovely in my garden at the moment.
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    Momiji’s embrace,
    A season’s fiery farewell,
    Maple leaves ablaze.

    Anthony
    [Momiji (紅葉) – The changing colors of autumn leaves]
    Not the easiest photograph to take – a proper black background.
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    • Ancient Roots: Japanese maple trees have been cultivated in Japan for over a thousand years. They are believed to have been introduced to Japan from China or Korea during the early Heian period (794-1185).
    • Symbolism: In Japanese culture, the Japanese maple has symbolic significance. It is often associated with tranquillity, beauty, and change, which are important themes in Japanese aesthetics. The changing colours of the leaves during the fall have been a source of inspiration for many forms of art, including painting and poetry.
    • Bonsai and Niwaki: Japanese maple trees are commonly used in bonsai and niwaki (a form of ornamental pruning). Their small leaves and graceful branches make them well-suited for these artistic practices. This tradition has been passed down through generations.
    • Modern Appreciation: Japanese maples continue to be highly regarded in Japan and around the world. They are commonly used in landscaping and gardening for their ornamental value, and their stunning foliage is admired in both public and private gardens.
    • Varieties: There are numerous cultivars of Japanese maple, each with its own characteristics. Some popular varieties include the “Acer palmatum dissectum” with finely dissected leaves and the “Acer palmatum atropurpureum” with deep purple leaves.

    The Japanese maple’s long history in Japan reflects its enduring cultural significance and aesthetic value in the country. Today, it remains a beloved and iconic tree in Japanese gardens and landscapes.

    Higan’s gentle light,
    Maple leaves drift to the earth,
    Ancestor’s embrace.

    Anthony
    [Higan (彼岸) – autumn equinox]
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  • Hawthorn Chutney Recipe

    Hawthorn Chutney Recipe

    In the heart of autumn, when hawthorn trees offer their bountiful red berries, there’s an opportunity to create something truly special – Hawthorn Berry Chutney. This unique and tangy condiment combines the vibrant flavours of hawthorn berries with a delightful blend of spices. Whether you have a hawthorn tree in your backyard or you’ve foraged these crimson jewels from the wild, making your own hawthorn chutney is a rewarding culinary adventure.

    Hawthorn at Abercastle, Pembrokeshire

    This chutney is a perfect balance of sweet and tart, with a hint of warm spices like cinnamon and cloves. It can be used as a versatile condiment, adding a touch of elegance to your dishes. Spread it on sandwiches, serve it alongside roasted meats, or use it as a dipping sauce – its possibilities are as limitless as your culinary imagination.

    Let’s dive into this enchanting recipe that transforms hawthorn berries into a delectable chutney, capturing the essence of the autumn season in every spoonful.

    Ingredients
    – 2 cups hawthorn berries
    – 1/2 cup sugar
    – 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
    – 1/4 cup water
    – 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
    – 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
    – 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
    – Pinch of salt

    Instructions
    1. Wash and clean the hawthorn berries, removing stems and any leaves.
    2. In a saucepan, combine the hawthorn berries, sugar, apple cider vinegar, and water.
    3. Simmer the mixture over low heat until the berries are soft and easily mashed, about 20-30 minutes.
    4. Using a potato masher or a fork, mash the berries and sieve to remove any stones and tough pieces of skin.
    5. Add the ground cloves, cinnamon, allspice, and a pinch of salt. Stir well.
    6. Continue to simmer for another 10-15 minutes, allowing the mixture to thicken.
    7. Taste and adjust the sweetness or spices to your liking.
    8. Remove from heat and let it cool.
    9. Once cool, transfer the chutney to a blender or food processor and blend until smooth.
    10. Pour the hawthorn chutney into a sterilised jar or bottle, and refrigerate. It can be used as a condiment for various dishes or as a unique dipping sauce.

    Hope you relish your homemade hawthorn chutney.

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  • Red Rowan

    Red Rowan

    A deciduous tree or shrub known as a rowan tree (Sorbus aucuparia) or mountain ash can be found all throughout the Northern Hemisphere, including Europe, Asia, and North America. The tree can be identified by its pinnate leaves, thin, silver-grey bark, and clusters of tiny white flowers in the spring. Rowan trees are also well-known for their huge clusters of red berries that bloom in late summer to early fall.

    Magical Protector
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    The red berries of the rowan tree have significant cultural and symbolic importance in many countries and cultures. In Europe, the berries were traditionally used for making a popular drink, which was believed to have medicinal properties. They were also considered to have spiritual significance and were used in various rituals and ceremonies. In folklore, rowan berries were believed to have protective powers and were often used to ward off evil spirits.

    In many cultures, the rowan tree was associated with protection, healing and good luck. For example, in Celtic folklore, the rowan was considered a sacred tree, and its wood was often used for making protective amulets and talismans. In Scandinavian folklore, the rowan was known as the “mountain ash” and was considered a powerful symbol of strength and protection.

    One of the most popular stories about the rowan tree is that of the “Rowan Tree and the Red Thread.” This Scottish folktale tells the story of a young girl who is visited by a fairy queen and given a magical red thread, which is said to protect her from harm. The red thread is tied around the branch of a rowan tree, and it is said that as long as the thread remains unbroken, the girl will be protected.

    In conclusion, the rowan tree is a species of tree with a rich cultural and symbolic history, particularly known for its red berries. Its red berries are associated with protection, healing and good luck in many cultures, and it continues to hold a special place in the hearts of many people today.

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  • The Heart of a Dragon-fly

    The Heart of a Dragon-fly

    A Flight of Fancy
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    “Ah, greetings to all of you humans who have the privilege of beholding my grand presence. Allow me to introduce myself – I am the magnificent Welsh Red Dragon, a force to be reckoned with. I am the king of the skies, the master of the winds, and the conqueror of all who dare to challenge me. My fiery spirit and my powerful wings strike fear into the hearts of all who cross my path.

    But wait, I hear whispers amongst you. Whispers that I am not a dragon, but merely a small insect. How dare you, mortals! How dare you question the might of the Welsh Red Dragon.”

    “Alas, it seems I must set the record straight. For it is true, I am not a dragon, but a red dragonfly, a proud creature known as the Red-Veined Darter or Nomad, scientifically referred to as Sympetrum Fonscolombii. Although I may be small in size, I am mighty in heart and spirit. I soar through the skies, spreading joy wherever I go, flitting from pond to pond, experiencing the world from a unique and wondrous perspective.

    So, let this be a lesson to all of you. Do not judge a creature based on its appearance. For even the tiniest of creatures can possess a heart of fire, a spirit of adventure, and a sense of humour that will bring a smile to your face. And who knows, perhaps someday you too will come to understand the true nature of the Welsh Red Dragon, in the heart of the red dragonfly who reigns supreme in the skies.”

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