December 15th

 

bashful lights peeking

from the Christmas tree filled with

bright birds winter warmed

Our Christmas Tree is up, one day we’ll have enough bird decorations to avoid needing baubles. A christmas tree, in my own home, always makes me happy.

 

December 2nd

crimson and luscious

thrushes feast on yew berries

burst on the frosted

brittle leaf litter

the ice queen’s breath builds pretty

crystals on the oak

We went to Wrest Park, it was cold and icy, but quiet and serene. Inside the walled gardens, a warm haven in the sun. My photos below (all photos © Mel Melis)

The goddess Iris (below)

Pretty ice crystals on the oak leaf.

November 22nd

 

Dark and beautiful

the trees twinkle with the pale

glow of Christmas lights

photo © Mel Melis

November 21st

 

rose glow of comfort

caress the saturated

peat drunk on rainfall

November 2nd

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

October 28th

 

in the sun shunned wet

the earth stirs and rises up

slender stalks shoulder

the secret places

where sad old trees go to die

teeming with colour

 

Went for a walk in the moors and woods. If you look closely, the fungi are everywhere. In those sun shunned secret places. I don’t know much about identifying them, but they are all beautiful in their own way. Here are some photos I took (copyright: Me!). These are real scenes of autumn, the colours of autumn.

October 19th

ankle deep in rain

cobbled back alleys echo

dark conversation

My friend Bossman got me a private view ticket for the Shepard Fairey opening night at the StolenSpace gallery in East London.

East London, despite the modernisation still has something of the Victorian sinister about it.

In amongst the warehouses you can imagine foul deeds taking place. And yes, I did drop my foot ankle deep into a cobbled puddle.

The queues were huge, people without umbrellas were getting soaked. Everyone seemed to be grumbling, so we went to a pub and killed some time. A few minutes before closing, we managed to get in. Here are a few of my shots from the event.

August 17th

in the heart of the

bramble briar, it’s always

dark full of secrets

the thicket immune

to the sun demolishing

the scowling cloud walls

a body concealed

her one true love scratched and bled

by welcoming thorns

photo’s I took on the moor

Three Haikus today, aren’t you lucky…. we partook in one of our normal walks and headed off to the Pond on Flitton Moor. On the edge of it is quite a dense patch of thick briar, bristling with thorny bramble as well as other tough hardy plants. It’s dark and sheltered there, whatever the weather. It oozes night even when the sun is in full roar. It’s a shady spot, dank and damp. Almost sinister.

It reminded me of an old folk song, a murder ballad. It has three names (Bruton Town, The Merchant’s Daughter and The Bramble Briar) and variations on the lyrics, but I think my favourite is by Martin Simpson (I can’t find it on youtube, but here it is on Spotify).

It is such a sad tale, a girl falls in love with one of her father’s servants, her brothers then secretly murder him as they feel him not good enough for her. They dump his body in a ditch filled with brambles, but his ghost visits her and she sets out and finds his body and the truth. Upon discovering him, the grief stricken girl goes back and meets her brothers “stand off, stand off! you bloody butchers!”  but it seems from the lyrics she will ultimately kill herself too, in her grief. “My love and I, you have both slain”.

So next time someone writes off folk music, think of the murder ballads, they are dark, bloody, graphic and tragic.

The Bramble Briar has a powerful narrative, it’s tragic and has no happy ending, it’s not fair. Sometimes life is like that.

The Bramble Briar (traditional, from Martin Simpson’s version)

In Bruton town there lived a farmer,
Who had two sons and a daughter dear.
By day and night they were contriving
To fill their parents' heart with fear.

He told his secrets to no other,
Unto his brother this he said
'I think our servant courts our sister.
I think they has a great mind to wed.

I'll put an end to all their courtship.
I'll send him silent to his grave.'

They asked him to go out a-hunting,
Without any fear or strife,
And these two bold and wicked villains,
They took away this young man's life.

And in the ditch there was no water,
Where only bush and briars grew.
They could not hide the blood of slaughter,
So in the ditch his body they threw.

When they returned home from hunting,
She's asking for her servant-man.
"I ask because I see you whisper,
Brothers tell me if you can."

"O sister, sister, you do offend me,
Because you so examine me.
We've lost him where we've been a-hunting.
No more of him we could not see."

As she lay dreaming on her pillow,
She thought she saw her heart's delight;
By her bed side as she lay weeping,
He was dressed all in his bloody coat.

"Don't weep for me, my dearest jewel,
Don't weep for me nor care nor pine,
For your two brothers killed me cruel-
In such a place you may me find."

She early rose the very next morning,
With a heavy sigh and a bitter groan,
The only love that she admired,
She found in the ditch where he was thrown.

The blood upon his lips was drying.
Her tears were salt as any brine.
She sometimes kissed him, sometimes crying:
'Here lies the dearest friend of mine.'

Three days and nights she did sit by him,
'Till her poor heart was filled with woe,
And cruel hunger crept upon her,
And home she was obliged to go.

Sister, sister, why do you whisper,
And won't you tell me where you've been?
Stand off! Stand off, you bloody butchers!
My love and I, you have both slain.

August 4th

smog choked chestnut trees

blurred in the grainy drizzle

shelter tiny hearts

wretched bird song stirs

toothless smiles from old grey cowls

pausing to listen

I went to Tate Britain yesterday, to check out the Another London exhibition of photography from 1930-1980. I loved the social history of it, familiar yet wholly unfamiliar through the passage of time, fashion, bomb damage and new architecture. And all the more interesting because the esteemed photographers on show were foreign visitors to London, hence they took photos of what they found interesting. Perhaps things that locals might have considered mundane.

A silly irrational part of me though what a wonderful stroke of luck it would be if I saw one of my parents in some old photo, of course I didn’t, but there was something intimate to me about the whole exhibition.

As a Londoner it felt personal to me, I walked round it with a slight smile, or a sad sense of something lost, when an old memory was revived by an image. London can be cruel and ugly, but also beautiful and inspiring. It is one of my favourite places on Earth.

So, two Haiku’s today, in honour of old London and old photographs. All photo credits to Tate website and Another London Exhibition. Associated exhibition book linked here by Helen Delaney.

July 30th

 

naked athletes run

laconic warriors box

under golden skies

I do like the Olympics, but the whole commercialism of sport pisses me right off. Many fans have missed out on tickets because sponsors have lapped up loads. I don’t really see a trickle down of wealth coming down to your average worker or independent trader as the money seems to have corralled by some key corporations.

I wonder what the Olympics would be like if we reverted to the Ancient format of the games, with Chariot racing for instance. I’m not that keen on naked running / wrestling, but hey, if it makes it authentic, why not. (other people competing, not me!).

As I watched the games, I took this photo from our living room window.

July 15th

All seems still bar the

skittish skaters skirmishing

the surface ripples

---

the sound of people

muffled and lost in tall grass

shredded by the wild

entangling brambles

impenetrable thorn quilt

diminishing path

Not one, not two, but three haikus today. Two of them are a pair, one, the pond skater one, was originally meant to be stand alone, but if you read all three together, they complement each other and transition well, much like a walker leaving the relative peace of the pond and diving into the overgrown path to be torn by thorns and brambles.

So… The sun was threatening an appearance so I decided I’d go for a walk, I watched the pond skaters duelling on the surface of the big moor pond for a while, they would fly at each other, over the meniscus of the pond, wheeling elegantly and racing off in another direction to see off another adversary, they were all dancing, protecting the unmarked boundaries of their territory. It had been raining all day. D is away in Ireland, she would have been proud of me, as I listened intently. I heard the distinctive song of Chiff-Chaff and a Yellowhammer. Blackbirds and Wrens, their volume belying their tiny size. I crossed the stone bridge over the Flit, the water was running faster than normal, understandably due to the rain. It cascaded towards the faraway North sea, ultimately this little river would flow into the Ivel, then the Great Ouse then out into the flats of the Wash.

I walked the first moor, then thought I would tackle the second. Not via the main route, but by the little path, it was Sunday afternoon, which meant dog walkers. I’m normally personable, but I didn’t want to see anyone today. So I took the little path as hardly anyone bothers with it and the bird watching is better. I walked round the edge of the field of juvenile Alders, still stick thin but very tall, twice, sometimes three times taller than me. Even the grass was almost as tall as me. it should have given me fair warning. The path got more and more difficult to track, the wild had been reclaiming it. No one had battled through the thicket to clear it. It truly was a deer path now, no human had walked it in weeks it seemed. Back in March it was clear enough to run through it. But now, there were points I had to push through, through thistle and bramble. Nettles stung me. Thorns cut me. Snails ended up in my hair, passengers from the damp dark foliage.

I was lost. I’d lost the path. But I wasn’t phased. I was happy. There was a serenity in that. I tramped onwards, using one of the tributaries of the Flit as a marker to my right. I used my watch compass and having some idea of my position, negotiated myself out. I saw red brick between the trees, that meant civilisation. But I enjoyed my time in the grasslands. Getting lost when you are heading nowhere in particular has its own sweet reward.

Some photos from my adventure.

The Pond, Pond Skaters battle here.

Some thorny thistles blocking my path. Note they are around seven feet tall.

This used to be the path, now it’s a seething mass of impenetrable pain!

July 9th

soldier beetles touch

the cow parsley canopy

meadowsweet dreaming

First time in a long time, many weeks in fact, we walked on the moors. There is a wildness about them, the rain, that nourishing rain has burst the fields and moors aflame with colour. The plants and animals are thriving.

D is good at recognising plants and animals. So I learn a lot from her.

Soldier Beetles on Cow Parsley (although it might be Hedge Parsley, she’s fairly sure it’s of the cow variety). Solider Beetles are notoriously frisky, always getting it on with each other, although these lot are fairly sedate.

Meadowsweet. With it’s unusual smell. Kind of like vanilla, but not like vanilla at all. It’s a smell of it’s own. It hogs the sides of the river and its tributaries.

A pretty pink poppy, growing in the rape seed field. The yellow flowers of the rape are long gone, leaving the little pods containing the seeds from which the rape seed oil will be made. In this case it will contain a teeny bit of poppy too…

June 19th

Edgar Allan Poe

skull and pirate treasure trail

gold-bug cipher bite

We had the washing carousel out, which made a kind of tent like secluded wind break, but still allowed the sun to filter through. It was kind of like how I imagined a medina in Marrakesh would be like, with a nice patch to sit on outdoors and drink mint tea / smoke shisha, behind thin curtains, except with our bed linen hanging out to dry instead of un-dyed natural cotton billowing.

It was nice, hadn’t had much time to think of late, the day was warm as well. So I just sat down, then lay down and looked at the sky. Listened to the birds. A blackbird and a song thrush had a competition. One was in the oak, the other in the Eucalyptus tree, but it might have been in the Willow, it was hard to tell.

I felt safe being surrounded by our flowers. One should not underestimate the therapeutic and reviving qualities of a loved garden.

D then noticed something, a small golden beetle near the herbs. It looked amazing, neither of us had seen anything like it. It reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe’s (conveniently his name is 5 syllables) short story, The Gold-Bug, from Tales of Mystery and Imagination.

Except with a bit of research, we confirmed they’d be no buried treasure to dig up. The offending critter was a Rosemary Beetle, yes, they love Rosemary and their larva can destroy it, they are a non native pest. We have tons of Rosemary growing. Neither of us like to kill any animal, no matter how small, so we’re going to try to reason with him!

(all photos by me)

other stuff happening. A bee on the knapweed.

A bee in the foxgloves (an action shot – woooo)

May 24th

 

The Devil’s wisdom

sanctity of solitude

stares through hollow souls

After playing football, I decided to make use of the beautifully warm evening and take a run up Pegsdon Hills. Getting to the top at sunset you are rewarded with the fiery end of the day. There was a haze in the sky, it was particularly red. And the black sheep with their peculiarly sinister horns were amassed, giving me the opportunity to take some wonderful pictures (even if I do say so myself!) of them and the stunted little hawthorns, some of which were starting to bloom.

Sheep and goats have got a rough deal over the centuries, their features and eyes giving them a devilish appearance. But you know, it isn’t their fault we stuck a label on them :)

I love going to the hills, it gives time to think, there’s rarely people up there. Solitude and reflection is something to treasure.

May 16th

 

Far from home I long

for a familiar face

and she obliges

Stuck in Warrington for work. Nice sunset from my hotel room window. I took a pic. And below the pic is a beautiful song by Jon Redfern, called “I love the sun”. Deeply melancholy, to me it talks of passing seasons and lost loved ones, how the sun can revive you in times of sadness and reflection. Much lovelier words than my Haiku.

“I love the sun, I love the sun
It shines down on everyone
I count the days, I count the days
Winter comes and daylight fades
Where are you now, where are you now
Friends I've seen go to the clouds”

April 26th

 

Golden revival

synchronised bows, gentle waves

a tranquil sea swells

Haven’t been for a walk in the moors for a while due to the rain, so when there was a spot of calm we went for it. The rape had really grown! Some pics I took.

Can you see the nest in the middle tree in the photo above?