the meek sun revives
stone hearts warm and swell with blood
Lazarus life light
On cold days the sun provides that warmth to lift even the coldest heart, to force a smile, to melt, even by a tiny amount, a sadness. Here are some photos I took in Centenary Wood and the place I keep returning to, the Pond on the moors. That solitary swan seems to be living there now, it makes me sad to think he or she might have lost their mate.
All copyright to photos © Mel Melis
white wall of blossoms
blackthorns bowing and swaying
my guard of honour
When I go for a run or walk, I always take the same route, always run it the same way, I guess I’ve got a little bit of OCD or something :) Don’t know why I don’t reverse the route sometimes. You see a whole lot more, you are faced with the spectacle of new perspectives, stuff that will stop you in your tracks. I noticed something today which made me turn back, I was aware of a long row of blackthorns, all were white and bursting with flowers. I stopped running and turned back to look at the row and took in the view I’d never seen before, not from that angle anyway. It was beautiful. I then carried on my run.
Going to try and get a photograph of it in the next couple of days, it’s in Centenary Wood nearby, it wont be there for long.
Green shoots dusty ground
Tattered black banners flutter
Scarecrows’ grave markers
I went for a run today, completed 5 miles, instead of my usual 3.5 so I was pleased with myself. To fill out the distance I took in Centenary Wood as well as the Moors. There is a public footpath through a field to get to the Wood. As the farmer had recently ploughed it, there was no discernable footpath so to speak, but I could see the path marker diagonally opposite the field boundary, so I had to pick through the big bumpy clumps of earth, rolling my ankles and knees in the process to get back on the path. Was quite energy sapping but I avoided injury.
Anyway, the field itself was dry and dusty, but there was something growing in it, little green grass like crops were poking through. It was obvious it was a crop as the farmer had installed these wooden waist high frames with pieces of black sackcloth flapping in them, to scare the birds.
I just imagined these were graves markers for scarecrows who’d been forcibly retired, trussed up with rope, unstuffed of their straw, burnt and their scraps buried. At night they’ll crawl out of the earth and kill us all. Just thought you should know.
