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By Celene García Avila

The winding paths of tender grass

At the Xinantecatl skirts

Bring colorful insects to my feet.

Dragonflies take off the river’s edge,

Ants dash suddenly leaving their hot rocks behind.

The children’s bare toes itch for touching

The wet grass of Spring.

Taken by their parents to go on a pic-nick outdoors,

The three siblings squint their eyes to enjoy the sun.

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A Poem By Kay Channon

Weeping waves hiss along the shoreline

the happy horizon heals my heart as time stands still

ahead the white sail boats float like a clean canvas waiting to be painted

Birds circle above

picking at the dry grass in search of their next meal

the sun shines on my skin

reflecting hostile heat

I am alone

I close my eyes

remembering what it felt like to dip my toes in the ocean

the ground now too treacherous to tread

I stare out at my childhood home

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open air,
rising sap,
dawn chorus
the birds are excited because eggs are hatching in the beech tress near the rose garden

the earth smells of new mulch
buds are near full-term
about to split green

around the corner up Battlestone Hill they might be cutting grass and that smell is home, summer, safety, normality.

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THE SMALL CITY Although I live in a district far from the downtown , It's still Rio de Janeiro, a very big city, quite dangerous. And I have this house, at the south of Minas Gerais, 350 km away. My parents were born there. They are buried there. Its a very small city where time   seems to have stopped.  You can ear the  church's bells ringing. At sunset  Ave Maria by Schubert covers all the houses.   And I don't understand why I'm the only one who wants to cry when the  song is played.   It  makes me melancholic. So beautiful, but so sad...  And there are the  green araras living in the roof at the balcony which I have no courage to send  away, even knowing they can destroy the roof.   From the balcony I can see farms with crops of coffee and corn.  I feel a mix of wonder and sadness when I'm there. Life seems to  be  quiet, slow, 	immutable. 

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THE SMALL CITY Although I live in a district far from the downtown , It's still Rio de Janeiro, a very big city, quite dangerous. And I have this house, at the south of Minas Gerais, 350 km away. My parents were born there. They are buried there. Its a very small city where time   seems to have stopped.  You can ear the  church's bells ringing. At sunset  Ave Maria by Schubert covers all the houses.   And I don't understand why I'm the only one who wants to cry when the  song is played.   It  makes me melancholic. So beautiful, but so sad...  And there are the  green araras living in the roof at the balcony which I have no courage to send  away, even knowing they can destroy the roof.   From the balcony I can see farms with crops of coffee and corn.  I feel a mix of wonder and sadness when I'm there. Life seems to  be  quiet, slow, 	immutable. 

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Is the entire city, Mexico City. Chaos, disorder, dangerous places, stinky streets, unhealthy food, noise, beggars, robbers, a thick layer of smog, the underground stations. I am happy here, I can visit several museums, I can go to the Modern Art Museum and then I can take a sit at Café Bizarro, I ask an espresso, I am outside smoking menthol cigarettes, I am waiting for my friends whilst listening to Depeche Mode. Then my friends arrive, we have a talk and then we must be ready to enjoy a marvellous tribute to Joy Division, our friends play covers of that band. To the next day, I go shopping, I like Polanco because of the stores. I want to wear something special for the weekend, I have to make interviews to the bands that I admire like Namnambulu and Frozen Plasma, plus I must take pictures of them, is a big festival, not colourful because we dress in black most of the time, the only colours are from the lights onstage. In this city I have the pleasure of different activities, I always meet people and every place is a good surprise.

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A cat walks lazily towards the edge of the pond. 

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A cat walks lazily towards the edge of the pond. 

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The sun casts a silhouette over the water and two ducks chase each other playfully.  Autumn leaves scattered over the grass teasing us into winter.  The sound of traffic is kept at a distance.

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Serenity amidst chaos.
Harmony with nature.
Tranquillity of the soul.

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any place does lead to the memory of you
and my heart trembles in the morning dew
but this place is full of thee
I feel your presence beneath this tree
wherever I go and here
the melody of your voice I hear

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Alone, surrounded by things untainted by man's hands, and retaining the same, natural beauty

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IA thing i love in a place i love where i feel at one with nature
Shirley Tennant

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It is not far from home - a short walk through a sheltered woodland track - across a field that sighs with the breeze, or with breathless heat - another track which opens, expands, and dazzles with an endless sky, and enfolding hills beyond. And then I see it. hear it, and once again am drawn down the grassy bank to stand beside the river's tumbling water. The seasons change both the sound, and the depth and sometimes it is a roaring, gurgling, spitting being, and other times it whispers across the sandy beds and trickles among the reeds. Its changing colours shift with the morning sun, and often reflect the scudding clouds. but the molten gold of the setting sun is its masterpiece. So this place is where I go - to celebrate a task completed - to struggle and argue with a choice to be made - to escape the madding crowd - to weep silent tears - or to howl my grief - but most of all I just stand, or sit on the mossy tree trunk - drinking in the peace - the solace - the inspiration - the healing solitude like a balm - to just be. To remember - to forget - to feel love - and drown in it.

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Photo by Lara Fuller

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Photo by Lara Fuller

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Photo by Lara Fuller

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This poem is written by me, Lara Fuller and is about Porthcawl. It reminds me another seaside town I grew up in, where I found much peace and contentment.

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Geography playing spoilsport right now,since i am miles and memories away from the place i want to be.I can close my eyes and immediately get transported to the one place that gives me peace.The beach with a fortress of  magnificent hills overlooking it.The sound of  waves so soothing,the wind whispering secrets of souls lost at sea and the distant ship horn reminding me that i am not dreaming.

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Glastonbury Tor has lived with me for the last couple of weeks; magnificent, mysterious and imposing, rising abruptly from the Somerset Levels, crowned by St Michael’s Tower.  I hurried up, breaths coming faster, chest tightening; the strengthening wind was pushing me along.  The sky was pale and clear, the sun sinking behind me, and my shadow raced up the path ahead of me.

I took out the cherished jar, unscrewed the cap, and flung out the last of my son’s ashes.  Most were caught by the breeze, drifting quickly away, dispersing into the air.  Some fell to the grass, silvery grey and black fragments scattering and disappearing.  He’s free now, free to roam the World on the wings of the wind.

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The waves sway gently together
air whispers salt in my ear.
Each gran of sand shines;
gently rubs my soles.

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It is in Carthage hills (Tunisia) my origin where I belong. Whenever I go there I feel me ,my roots .I remember my past my ancestors' past .The monuments there are a good proof of who we were ;the Carthaginians the brave soldiers

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A strange place to feel at peace sat on a plinth of an obelisk commemorating the dead of a long forgotten conflict. The memorial almost as old as the cemetery enjoys an unrestricted view across Morecambe Bay and never fails to feel me with wonder. This sleeping place alsoserves as a momento mori,, a place to meditate on our mortality. This may seem macabre, but it reminds us to treat our time as a gift, before we surrender back to the earth.

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An inviting place where I can sit and engage in conversation with my plants and discover hidden treasures, different shades of colours and wonderful fragancies.

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Time stands still and tranquil
Clouds float silently, restless mind is calm
Troubles are forgotten, peace reigns

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Is what the British called it but in Spanish it is euphemistically called River of Silver. It has the expanse of a sea but the colour and smells of a river. When we were little we could bathe in it, and we called our favourite spot Rocky Pool. It smells of mud and waste but the air is fresh and the horizon compels

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There is magic in the lane that passes Dove Cottage, in spring, with the song of blackbirds fluting in the canopy above, before the first tours of the day arrive and after they've gone in the evening glimmer. The sign on the gate offers sanctuary within. I don't go in. I walk past slowly, smiling. 

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There is magic in the lane that passes Dove Cottage, in spring, with the song of blackbirds fluting in the canopy above, before the first tours of the day arrive and after they've gone in the evening glimmer. The sign on the gate offers sanctuary within. I don't go in. I walk past slowly, smiling. 

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Hillside Place has always been my concrete oasis in this concrete world that I know so well.  A man's thighs and buttocks become so strong upon years of ascending the hill, the hill of my formative years.  I grew up in the old yellow stucco house.  The stucco has since peeled, and my brother, who still lives in the house and has always lived there and will continue to live there until his death,  attends to my elderly father, a man nearly of 94 and whose rich memories have molded with dementia.  He has another granddaughter now, my little Gabriella Carmela, my first child at age 49, and his cumbersome brain cannot grasp the significance of   

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Hillside Place has always been my concrete oasis in this concrete world that I know so well.  A man's thighs and buttocks become so strong upon years of ascending the hill, the hill of my formative years.  I grew up in the old yellow stucco house.  The stucco has since peeled, and my brother, who still lives in the house and has always lived there and will continue to live there until his death,  attends to my elderly father, a man nearly of 94 and whose rich memories have molded with dementia.  He has another granddaughter now, my little Gabriella Carmela, my first child at age 49, and his cumbersome brain cannot grasp the significance of   

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Yesterday I went for a walk down the lane where I live, this is what I jotted down:Hear the sound of birds singing in the trees, See the brambly hedgerows to the side - only a few blackberries left now, The Kite looms overhead and then soars away, And in the spot where I Stand, where the hedgerow is lower, Look at the view over the fields, Where if I'm lucky, I can see the top of the Church's bell tower (through the trees), And maybe, hear the sound of the bells drifting down on the air...'

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Yesterday I went for a walk down the lane where I live, this is what I jotted down:Hear the sound of birds singing in the trees, See the brambly hedgerows to the side - only a few blackberries left now, The Kite looms overhead and then soars away, And in the spot where I Stand, where the hedgerow is lower, Look at the view over the fields, Where if I'm lucky, I can see the top of the Church's bell tower (through the trees), And maybe, hear the sound of the bells drifting down on the air...'

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Amanda Smith

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Sat on a rock on the edge of the woods outside my home with the sun setting in the West in this equinox time of year with a new crescent moon following the sunset. Seasons are changing but today is uncommonly hot with tree frogs singing along with the crickets and the occasional blue jay or cat bird chiming in. Planes flying west in an evening "rush hour " out of Philadelphia disturb my thoughts reminding me that Nature is not normal right now. "Unknown modes" of being and huge and mighty forms are rising as humans continue to disturb the delicate balance. The sun and moon, traveling in their predicable paths, bring me some solace. Made this cyanotype in the sun today to honor the crescent moon over our fields tonight.
Peggy Hartzell

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I keep waiting for the Autumn lights
Instead, I got  to hear today the rhythm of the waves, they contained songs, that were  made of ancient echos.
Celtic waves above the rocks.
Gentle sea today, violent ocean tomorrow.
But I could  also hear
the sound  my own memories.
Of  young mountains and of rivers
and of afternoons playing
under an Equatorial sun.
Then I  could hear the birds,
I imagined them playing with the wind, with the waves. White and light against the blue sky.
Some closer than others.
The cold  Atlantic's  wind on my face was gentle as  I left.
But now, as I write this,
the Autumn light  comes
through my window.
A shall look at it  later
at the Galway bay.

Claudia Valencia

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This is quite a wild beach in the sense it is untouched, lots of things get washed up there by the sea
A log, seaweed,jellyfish and sometimes a dead seal
This is not purely a tourist beach although there are plenty of visitors who come to see its beauty.  People enjoy the atmosphere and always say a friendly hello
they have dogs, windbreaks, fishing rods, buckets and spades picnics in the warmer weather.
Once a huge rainbow could be seen  It touched the beach and ended in the sea.  People enjoy the colours and the lapping of the waves on the seashore In the sunshine the sea looks like crystal.  There are tides so there is no beach when the tide is in.  It comes in stealthily through channels.  You do not notice it straightaway and suddently it is there.  When the tide is out there is a vast space.  I feel peaceful there and go to try to return to who I really am.  I paddle in the sea for long sretches when the water is warm enough.
Eileen Hancock

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Bird call squeak chirrup caw gabble chup chup
Muted traffic a dim hum of cars
Wind soft in my ear and sun on my back
Child call from squeaky swing and a mother-murmur laugh
Tickety dog paws on footpath nearby
Soft bubbly splash of duck diving.

Janette Miller

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Warm sand, cold sea

being with Grandad on the prom

long, long beach

finding shells

live crabs for sale

windblown sand on the pavement

hitting feet with a towel

clearing the sand to get our socks on

windbreaks for hire

with the deckchairs

stripy colours, wooden poles

Punch and Judy

laughing ourselves sick

penny arcades and old machines

nougat and rock in a stall

tent of delight

home so tired but happy

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Looking West

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Flat calm, new moon, low tide. A bird callls- maybe a redshank? The bones of the unfortunates from the prison hulls lay close by. Hopefully their souls are at peace.

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WINTER AT THE ZOO LAKE The grass is more yellow than green It is  hard underfoot. Is dry and crackles and crunches. The wind is crisp and cool to cold . Many trees are bare leaved But mature and bold .  . That South African blue winter sky is a joy . A stark contrast To the absence of the hot sun .The Zoo Lake with its geese and ducks Row boats and fountain Is a treasure trove of childhood memories .Feeding the ducks with bread . Picnics on soft green grass A green escape in a city in Africa BRENDA SOLARSH

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WINTER AT THE ZOO LAKE The grass is more yellow than green It is  hard underfoot. Is dry and crackles and crunches. The wind is crisp and cool to cold . Many trees are bare leaved But mature and bold .  . That South African blue winter sky is a joy . A stark contrast To the absence of the hot sun .The Zoo Lake with its geese and ducks Row boats and fountain Is a treasure trove of childhood memories .Feeding the ducks with bread . Picnics on soft green grass A green escape in a city in Africa BRENDA SOLARSH

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On Alnmouth Beach

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Emotion recollected in tranquillity

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And from that lofty place, I saw
one hundred hills, or maybe more

cut into shapes and shades of green
with contrast stitching in between

that marked the lanes and lazy streams
by hedgerows filled with leafy trees

and dots of white grazed grassy tops
above the colours of the crops

that moved like waves upon the shore
as breezes from the valley floor

drifted through to higher ground
and with them brought the gentle sound

of whispers from another place
that faded out to empty space

where just a single crow did fly
across an endless clear blue sky

and on a rock without a care-
a lowly sheep did sit and stare.

Mike Jones

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A memory so strong I can see feel the cool morning air on my face, the red dust being disturbed as the jeep moves through the scrub. We stop and there eating the top leaves totally unaware of our presence are my favourite animals - giraffe. We sit in awe of these magnificent creatures. A photo still in my mind

Gillian Wood

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I have known this special place for many years, sublime beauty,
Wind rustling leaves, distant tractors, sheep bleating, crows.
A passing car tries to interrupt but does not succeed,
Quiet contemplation takes precedence.
These large boulders are wrong,
They should not rest here,
Or should that be lie here?
Strange geology attracts my attention,
Hidden symbols and Stone Age markings,
Point to a mysterious and ancient past,
Glacial deceptions fuel my thoughts,
How, why is such beauty created,
It is enough to be at peace with this place.
John Todd.

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Outside the tree-lacking city
close to the drying up lake
under clear skies
seeing the birds
longed for, temporary, break

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No time today to travel to my favourite place. But close my eyes and I am there in no time at all. I sit outside my tent next to a mountain lake. Canada geese bleating as they cross in formation. Brown trout, remnants from the last ice age, feeding on insects that fly too low. In the distance a mountain, Cnicht, named after a Knights helmet, for that is its shape. The prospect of a cloudless night, with stars to count. O how I wish I could be in that time and place. 

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No time today to travel to my favourite place. But close my eyes and I am there in no time at all. I sit outside my tent next to a mountain lake. Canada geese bleating as they cross in formation. Brown trout, remnants from the last ice age, feeding on insects that fly too low. In the distance a mountain, Cnicht, named after a Knights helmet, for that is its shape. The prospect of a cloudless night, with stars to count. O how I wish I could be in that time and place. 

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John Mason

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Glistening water,
Sand dunes ripple, geese lift,
Oystercatchers pipe.

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Not a familiar  location but familiar in its movements of people and a sense of place

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Not a familiar  location but familiar in its movements of people and a sense of place

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Displaced for to long now I seek the familiar and it's reassurances.

To love something you have to leave it
for awhile.
And on your return you love again with new eyes, a new heart
and a new passion.

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The Intra-Terrestial

It’s quiet up here

inside gravel

arche of earth

Encased

piled high

pounded hard

Unseen

since earth’s crust

was form

All movement

inchoate

pronominal

Living outside

inside

rammed earth

Arachnophobia

pricks

first fears

Dioramas

break into

stained glass

Windows double glazed

oak doors closing

to silence

As up walls

unable to breathe

mice and insects creep

Spiders

spin

a high trapeze

Exposed beams

give blowflies

a bashing

Jarrah floors

send lizards

slithering

Empty baths

flurry

centipede fury

Solar power

crazes

time

Beetles

get lost in

carpet patterns

Until earwigs

raising tails

release speech

By night

highway and coast

are mine

Car  lights

drink

a darkened prose

Town lights

fuse

in patterned styles

Wall openings

uplift

my bed

My book

my bath

of stars

To film

music in

my ears

DG

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As if an interloper, I saw the naked light in all her brilliance dance skittishly along the bough of the tree. The Derwent lapped rhythmically against the stones applauding  the glory of nature.
Respectfully, I knelt at the water's edge, trailing my hand lightly in the licking water.
Silence curled stealthily around the banks, wrapping me in wondrous joy.

Jacqueline Warwicker

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The waves breaking rhythmically and bringing shells to the shore , seagulls in flight on the beach, the green-blue colour of the sea, dazzling in the sun.
Reverberant in my eyes.

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Amazed by these dozen oaks still standing,
Among the brambles just beyond the garden,
I sit back on my own in a deck-chair,
Gazing up ninety feet at their canopy,
Growing more aware of their company.

The first yellow leaf falls from the fretwork
Which shifts and breathes in the breeze.
Light brightens through the branches' bent elbows
That twist and taper to fingertips of bark.

Both iconic emblems and rough to the touch,
Trunks: the towers of two hundred years,
Engraved with the half-formed faces of fancy,
Show that their slow growth slows time itself.
Peter Harvey.

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These photographs are taken in June when the seabirds are nesting up in North Yorkshire

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The Lighthouse to North Landing (Flamborough Head, N. Yorkshire)

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The Lighthouse to North Landing (Flamborough Head, N. Yorkshire)

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The mist is in, the fog horn sounds
From yonder lighthouse white on white
The boots go on, and rucksack full
Weatherproofs, woolie, food and drink
One foot and then another stride
I climb up cliffside paths well worn
The cliffs are steep and limestone white
I hear the crashing waves down below
On jagged rocks laid bare by winter storms
The golf course on my left, no shouts
Par, eagle, not that we would see one today
But birds they do abound on these rugged cliffs
The mist is clearing, blue skies
The sun is shining on the cliffs and coves
Sea so blue and transparent
I see wild purple orchards
The skylark sings climbing towards the sun
And cliff upon cliff appear to me until I find the one
I reach the cathedral with its pinnacle
The sound of seabirds, screeching calling to their young
Kittiwakes, fulmars, razor bills, and gulls
Like snowflakes floating
I sit and watch, and watch
Life renewed and tide exhaled
One foot, one stride, the Lighthouse back in view.
By Christine Raithby

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Breezes shuffle the leaves. I here the plop of a surfacing fish and behind it the steady thrum of traffic. In the near distance the sound of a car door being shut.
Bees buzzing, above my head the sound of a plane receding. Birds are calling to each other, some are in alarm. Opening my eyes a kingfisher flashs by a head of orange and a body turquoise. A jetsam of leaves floats on the river, some travelling with the current, others held stationery in quiet waters against the opposite bank.  A variety of foliage overhangs the river. Behind my shoulder a bird call
S from a low lying branch. Sunlight is a fugitive breaking out from passing clouds.  The river continues on its slow course weaving through the course vegetation to pass the mill
David cattanach

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I walked a trail I walk most mornings and sat in a wash ( an open area for the waters to run during the summer monsoons).

Wild, Quiet, Natural

I listened to the birds Phainopepla, Cactus Wren, and Hummingbird.  I saw a jack rabbit, Cactus Wren, Morning Dove, lizard.  A hummingbird flies close to me to check me out.
There are saguaro cacti, prickly pear cacti, barrel cacti, Mesquite trees, Palo Verde trees, and many blooming wildflowers.

I am alone here although there are footprints on the trail. The jack rabbit does not see me and we both sit still and quiet.

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Oh ancient tree
What mysteries have you seen
Standing there stretching
your arms up to the sky,
Harbouring a safe haven
For insects that teem
Around creepers sucking up your life's sap
A micro universe of
Fungi and burrowing
Wood live and insects

Are you being smothered?
Do you remember when
Naked, your bark was
Smooth and flawless
What do you hide in the alcove of your trunk?
Are there squirrels and fledgling birds?
Has a lover left a secret note for his lady love?
What have you seen?
By Diane Jardel

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3.4 Personalising Place – Sirmione on Lake Garda                                  ------------------------------- Derek Bond                                     ------------------------------- I have chosen this place because it was somewhere I went recently on holiday and I did work on the course here. The three words which sum up this place are:	                             - Expansive                            -	Holiday                          -	Freedom                   The poem is based upon my impressions of Sirmione during a rapid change in weather, so often found in mountainous areas                                      -------------------------------                                    Water sky air mountain earth                        Elemental but touched by man                         Expansive yet intimate  Crowds tourists but still freedom To roam            Was it for this                  that Prelude comes to mind         Contrasts                  Sirmione sun opposite grey sleet diagonal combs       Hail arrival, crouching under pink poncho                Stones of ice                    Also fashioned Mont Bardo  Holiday sun returns       Now gelato

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3.4 Personalising Place – Sirmione on Lake Garda                                  ------------------------------- Derek Bond                                     ------------------------------- I have chosen this place because it was somewhere I went recently on holiday and I did work on the course here. The three words which sum up this place are:	                             - Expansive                            -	Holiday                          -	Freedom                   The poem is based upon my impressions of Sirmione during a rapid change in weather, so often found in mountainous areas                                      -------------------------------                                    Water sky air mountain earth                        Elemental but touched by man                         Expansive yet intimate  Crowds tourists but still freedom To roam            Was it for this                  that Prelude comes to mind         Contrasts                  Sirmione sun opposite grey sleet diagonal combs       Hail arrival, crouching under pink poncho                Stones of ice                    Also fashioned Mont Bardo  Holiday sun returns       Now gelato

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Sirmione in sunshine

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Peace/History/Vastness

Rustling of the ancient grasses. Small lizards on the walkways
creeping through the slots
Dragonflies -pink and blue and green
hovering over the drainage ditches
The arms of the resurrected windmill
wisting patiently for the wind
The bird hide
Ultinmate peace
In awe of the small birds activities by the thickened pond in autmn
History, ancient, sustainability and hope inthis palce of peace.
Judy Hicks

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Garden Contemplation.
My green and peaceful place,the breeze gently ruffled the washing in the sun.
Children have buried blackbirds here.
A sombre affair with a shoebox.
Excited giggles in the paddling pool.
Those children long gone flown the nest.
In their place the silence pierced by birdsong and the distant hium of traffic.
Golden leaves and fallen Apple's are strewn across the green velvet carpet.
A bronzed Budda stares iin silent contemplation.Warm memories flood the peace.
Glenys Brown

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Ingleborough, so near yet far,
You stand and wait,
But now too late
For me to reach your peak. A star
You are, lighting for me the way,
The path to take
For my own sake,
The road to fulfilment each day.

Ingleborough, and sisters two,
I see you here,
Like family dear,
Inside my head, beautiful view.
I open my eyes, just to see
Picture of you
Hidden now too
In part by clouds-beckoning me

LT

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Extract from the poetry book Untamed poems from the Wild by Ian McCallum

'Watch out there's a cheetah in me - slow until I see what I like - and a leopard too - shy, quiet, independent, true - filled with music, patient, waiting for my talent and with all respect'.

I go back to my passion - the Bush. Never tire of it and always experience new delights and tragic ones as well, the kill for example when Lions are feeding on a buck. They kill to feed and not for fun..this must be remembered.  Evenings sitting alongside a fire, sipping a good red wine listening to the sounds of the bush: the raw of the lion, night calls of birds, bats zooming back and forth, the chirping sound of crickets and gosh what do we have below the stoep the family of bush pigs - how spiritual is all this?
Difficult to pick out the Impala but the view is from Mjejane where I have a place.
This is the Crocodile river and the Kruger Park on the other side.

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Here the bird song and see the finches fly to the feeders. Listen to the splashing of the mallards on the pond. Autumn approaches with the sound of the geese flyng in over the mere.
KH

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On the Wild West coast of Scotia I wandered among the vast sand dunes that shift ceaselessly before the tides. I executed this oil painting on my return.

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by Julie Chiswick (see poem)

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Peace perfect peace.
Sun peeping through clouds and sheep quietly grazing in the fields. A rainbow at the edge of the valley. A gill to cross over with its bubbling call. Hues of all shades of green, gold, grey as the sun dips in and out of clouds.
Overhead a buzzard flies across the clouds. God's own place and my place too.

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In a deckchair, in a garden in Tuscany, a glass of the neighbour's Chianti in one hand and a camera in the other, the weight of a Kindle on my knees.  No traffic, the sigh of a light wind in the trees, a squirrel with a windfall lemon in its mouth rustling along the ground in the dry grass, pheasants calling to each other.  The smell of the wine mingling with baking bread and warm cheese, warm land and parched earth.  The relaxed pulse in my ears about 50bpm, slow, steady and soft.  I feel a snooze coming on.  This is what a holiday is all about.

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Sorry! Thought I could do them together.

The Path

Not green,
But a strange place,
Desolate, left over
From a more ancient
Time and place.
The water is felt
(Not seen)
In a perceptible drop
In temperature,
Like a sigh of relief.
Distant sounds of
Traffic, and occasionally
The wail of a lonely train.
Closer, the shrill
Chirp of a meadow
Lark, and the trill
Of the robin.
In the tall grasses,
Hidden creatures rustle,
And I turn my steps
Back to the circuitous
Rows and rows of
Houses.
-- Mairi McCloud

# data[].attributes.body
A wee note of explanation: I grew up in Utah, USA, but have never been drawn to desert beauty. I lived for four years in Glasgow and adored it. Recently I returned for a short visit and went to a place I'd researched in my archaeology degree but hadn't been able to see in person. I wrote a poem about that as well as a poem about a path that runs through my suburban neighbourhood - a strange marshy area in the desert. It offers some respite from the small trees and unimaginative houses.
-- Mairi McCloud
Kilmory Oib, Scotland

Bluebells,
In soft shades of
Periwinkle and almost purple,
And soft green grass,
Ferns and moss
Glowing on tree and ancient
Stone alike.

I could not approach the well in silence,
Though one should.
A bird, grave on a high branch,
Competed with the hazy drone
Of fat bumblebees.
I stood transfixed
By nature's music,
And by the absence of
All modern noise.

# data[].attributes.headline
This is part of an epistle that I wrote to a friend whilst travelling alone, carefree, last year:                                I've seen some of the world's greatest art, in some of the most famous galleries but I remember saying to Hil as we went round the Uffizi in Florence :I don't think I can take any more "Madonnas with child". I don't care if it's by Leonardo or whoever....my little mind can't take it all in and I can't  appreciate it any more.Japan has shrines and temples. I love them...they are stunning , both in architecture , location and scale. I've now seen the two biggest wooden structures in the world,seen UNESCO feted wonders but, in my search for enlightenment, the most magical complex of religious structures in a tranquil place was seen at dusk in a rare couple of Andy Bennett hours. Japan is the land of conformity and polite obsequious behaviour. People appear to follow the rules without questioning.However ,as I had already taken the little suburban train into the foothills outside Kyoto for an evening walk round the temples of Kumara I was not going to be put off by a sign that said: "Keep out after 3.30 .It is dangerous and gets pitch black so you cannot see.".It was 3.45 and doesn't get dark until 6.45. ...therefore 3 hours to do a 2 hour walk around the hillside on footpaths linking together yet more shrines and temples wasn't beyond me!I had the 6 km walk to myself in a sublime environment. You have to hand it to the early Buddhists they could choose a good spot for their soul searching. I worked my way up through the trees..bamboo, cedar, cherry, plum, past little shrines, big shrines, individual totems, flags and temples. It was both an uplifting and an enlightening process as I reached the top. ....a tree rooted space among the trees. I could wax lyrically about the eight fold pathway ( without sarcasm )...I'm sure my  school kids could...but I must admit to having a real sense of peace and being at ease with myself. I had no visions, or a Damascus - like conversion or any deep spiritual feelings. But,again , I thought about the wonders of the world and how happy and fortunate I was to be here. Both Holly and Ben's comments  came back to me where they had said that they felt at peace with the world and were very happy...after a hard day in the saddle and were camping in a remote spot.Obviously as one who is much older and seen a bit , experienced a bit I have had moments like this before.....but in the hub bub of "getting things done" , getting another tick in the "experiences to be had" box it's important to often stand back and let the environment take over...go with the flow, see how it feels. I sat, I didn't think too deeply...I didn't go "Om", hold my hands out or sit cross legged. I slouched...because I was tired, but I did close my eyes......and then slowly took the path down the hillside to a different little station....in the light.....feeling enlightened. It was one of those little gems of life experience that makes us feel alive.And why an Andy Bennett moment?....after his death I think it was Jo who found one of his poems, which started off describing jumping over the fence to run over the "out of bounds" moors. Even at almost 65 I am a naughty boy at heart....not wicked I hope but definitely not able to conform to ALL of the norms of any given society.I'm writing this on the summit of Mt Senkojo, above  Onomichi. Not a high peak.....it's another hill side of shrines and graveyards. I struggled up the steep pathways in the heat..over 30 degrees today ,but the cherry blossom is gorgeous and I was following the route taken by pilgrims so I felt uplifted! The constant clanging of the port below doesn't detract, indeed the everyday noises today add to the reality of the location. But my view is stunning.I'm looking out towards Shikoku Island but there are a myriad of islands between it and me helping to make it appear to be linked to Honshu...and you can imagine how the hills merge in the early evening haze. Indeed that is tomorrow's objective .....to cycle the Setouchi Shimanami Kaido, a 70 km bike route linking Honshu with Shikoku via the islands. I hope that the rental bikes are OK! It's 5.30, time to descend and check in to my " businessman " hotel......adjacent to the port, bike hire and starting off point for tomorrow's jaunt.

# data[].attributes.subject
This is part of an epistle that I wrote to a friend whilst travelling alone, carefree, last year:                                I've seen some of the world's greatest art, in some of the most famous galleries but I remember saying to Hil as we went round the Uffizi in Florence :I don't think I can take any more "Madonnas with child". I don't care if it's by Leonardo or whoever....my little mind can't take it all in and I can't  appreciate it any more.Japan has shrines and temples. I love them...they are stunning , both in architecture , location and scale. I've now seen the two biggest wooden structures in the world,seen UNESCO feted wonders but, in my search for enlightenment, the most magical complex of religious structures in a tranquil place was seen at dusk in a rare couple of Andy Bennett hours. Japan is the land of conformity and polite obsequious behaviour. People appear to follow the rules without questioning.However ,as I had already taken the little suburban train into the foothills outside Kyoto for an evening walk round the temples of Kumara I was not going to be put off by a sign that said: "Keep out after 3.30 .It is dangerous and gets pitch black so you cannot see.".It was 3.45 and doesn't get dark until 6.45. ...therefore 3 hours to do a 2 hour walk around the hillside on footpaths linking together yet more shrines and temples wasn't beyond me!I had the 6 km walk to myself in a sublime environment. You have to hand it to the early Buddhists they could choose a good spot for their soul searching. I worked my way up through the trees..bamboo, cedar, cherry, plum, past little shrines, big shrines, individual totems, flags and temples. It was both an uplifting and an enlightening process as I reached the top. ....a tree rooted space among the trees. I could wax lyrically about the eight fold pathway ( without sarcasm )...I'm sure my  school kids could...but I must admit to having a real sense of peace and being at ease with myself. I had no visions, or a Damascus - like conversion or any deep spiritual feelings. But,again , I thought about the wonders of the world and how happy and fortunate I was to be here. Both Holly and Ben's comments  came back to me where they had said that they felt at peace with the world and were very happy...after a hard day in the saddle and were camping in a remote spot.Obviously as one who is much older and seen a bit , experienced a bit I have had moments like this before.....but in the hub bub of "getting things done" , getting another tick in the "experiences to be had" box it's important to often stand back and let the environment take over...go with the flow, see how it feels. I sat, I didn't think too deeply...I didn't go "Om", hold my hands out or sit cross legged. I slouched...because I was tired, but I did close my eyes......and then slowly took the path down the hillside to a different little station....in the light.....feeling enlightened. It was one of those little gems of life experience that makes us feel alive.And why an Andy Bennett moment?....after his death I think it was Jo who found one of his poems, which started off describing jumping over the fence to run over the "out of bounds" moors. Even at almost 65 I am a naughty boy at heart....not wicked I hope but definitely not able to conform to ALL of the norms of any given society.I'm writing this on the summit of Mt Senkojo, above  Onomichi. Not a high peak.....it's another hill side of shrines and graveyards. I struggled up the steep pathways in the heat..over 30 degrees today ,but the cherry blossom is gorgeous and I was following the route taken by pilgrims so I felt uplifted! The constant clanging of the port below doesn't detract, indeed the everyday noises today add to the reality of the location. But my view is stunning.I'm looking out towards Shikoku Island but there are a myriad of islands between it and me helping to make it appear to be linked to Honshu...and you can imagine how the hills merge in the early evening haze. Indeed that is tomorrow's objective .....to cycle the Setouchi Shimanami Kaido, a 70 km bike route linking Honshu with Shikoku via the islands. I hope that the rental bikes are OK! It's 5.30, time to descend and check in to my " businessman " hotel......adjacent to the port, bike hire and starting off point for tomorrow's jaunt.

# data[].attributes.headline
the idyll i currently leave of a morning and return to each evening is never far from my mind 

# data[].attributes.subject
the idyll i currently leave of a morning and return to each evening is never far from my mind 

# data[].attributes.body
raising the roof
a sheet of loose tin
in the windy night

at my door
rose petals splash
first light

café luncheon
voices wrestle
coffee aroma

black bough
vibrating
no bird

DG

# data[].attributes.body
One of my favourite places is Tintern Abbey, by the River Wye. When I read Wordsworth's poem - (Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798), I wrote a response to him:

On the steep and lofty cliffs reaching for the sky,

above Tintern Abbey along the River Wye,

you composed a poem that sweetly tells me why,

it's in Nature where you walk.

“O sylvan Wye! My spirit turned to thee!”

These are your words and they have set me free.

Your elevated thoughts have taught me how to be,

in Nature where I walk.

I too have felt the Presence,

the sublime and deepening sense,

of joy, of light, of bliss intense,

in Nature where I walk.

I sense it by the River Wye,

in the setting sun, the thick grey sky,

in the woods, the meadows, the herons that fly

in Nature where I walk.

All that I behold on this green earth,

lifts me from gloom to a sense of worth.

This is my home, my dwelling, my berth.

it's in Nature where I walk.

Here I have found the guardian of my heart,

here the anchor where pure thoughts start,

here the nurse of my most inspired art

here, in Nature where I walk.

When in fear or pain or grief I've drowned,

in my mind I recall the harmonious sound,

and the beautiful forms that I have found

in Nature where I walk.

I will not forget that we stood together

on the banks of this stream amidst the heather.

With deepest zeal we worship forever

in Nature where we walk.

(Lisa Saffron)

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(In Stoke Park Estate, Bristol)

They conspired against me,

those merciless wood spirits.

They saw me coming,

my head full of grievances

and they plotted

to steal my precious wares.

The woodpecker, on the lookout,

tapped a staccato warning.

Shafts of sunlight shot through the trees

pinnning me to the spot.

Wild garlic knocked me out

with its pungent perfume.

A blanket of bluebells

took my breath away.

Trees waved urgently at me,

calling me to admire

their fresh green leaves.

Selendines and wood anenomes

squared up to me,

daring me to walk past

without a proper greeting.

Birds, insistent and loud,

threatened to sing me

to a standstill.

How could I resist?

(Lisa Saffron)

# data[].attributes.body
Every morning I ground myself with a walk through these lovely woods. After rain the earth smells rise up from under my boots and the birds sing for the joy of life. The squirrels are busy at the moment and I can surprise them on the ground, before they see me and they scoot up the nearest tree.

I see these woods through all the seasons and love to watch the changes, little by little each day of the year.

# data[].attributes.body
It’s frigidly cold before dawn. On a clear night, the mighty hunter wields his club under the baleful red eye of the charging bull. There might be the flash of a meteor and if I am very lucky, the sky might undulate in waves of green. Until the depths of winter water laughs in the stream “Dreaming still of Minnehaha,

Of the lovely Laughing Water” - As I open the door, I can hear gentle breathing and a movement of large shapes shifting in the dark. But these are not the creatures of Wordsworth’s imagination. These shapes just want their breakfast! I am content.

# data[].attributes.body
NB, entirely unedited

The longed for noisy peace of nature
Broken by the hum of traffic,
The shouts and screams of strangers.
An unseen plane whirrs
And a northwesterly wind
Carries a distant train horn.
A familiar woodpigeon, one of a pair
Calls out, cooing through the urban music;
A heart warming sound.

The sun bleeds through white mesh
Slowly brightening and darkening,
Nuances missed by most.

And if I lean slightly right
- not too far
A triangle of sky reveals herself
Clear and blue, for now.

The longed for joyful wonder of nature
Is found in unlikely places.

This is my bed, my nest, my nursemaid.
This is my bed, my prison, my shackles.

--
I wanted to go outside to do this but it's been a horrific week for my health and I've mostly been stuck in bed...

# data[].attributes.headline
Round walk from my house, on a sunny but wild and windy day. Crunching acorns underfoot, watching the three local buzzards defying the gusts to soar over Dead Mans Wood.  Listening to the crashing of branches, the slapping of maize leaves. The last of the blackberries, the holly and hawthorns heavy with berries, the rose-hips, and burnished bracken in the hedgerows.  The clouds - ever changing, ever growing, never still.  Out of breath, up the hill.  Time for a cuppa.

# data[].attributes.subject
Round walk from my house, on a sunny but wild and windy day. Crunching acorns underfoot, watching the three local buzzards defying the gusts to soar over Dead Mans Wood.  Listening to the crashing of branches, the slapping of maize leaves. The last of the blackberries, the holly and hawthorns heavy with berries, the rose-hips, and burnished bracken in the hedgerows.  The clouds - ever changing, ever growing, never still.  Out of breath, up the hill.  Time for a cuppa.

# data[].attributes.body
(Apologies for 3 posts!  But taking this opportunity to get a little ahead of myself as I'll be laptop free for my week's hol)
Chris Hammond.

# data[].attributes.body
If I awake with worries on my mind
I post those problems on a passing cloud
It may be one that scurries by at speed
And carries off my message in its flight
Or one that hovers high above my home
And barely moves, but slowly slips away
Eventually to disappear from sight
And with it takes the downers of the day
No tweets for me, my woes are heaven sent
For timing-out within the firmament

Chris Hammond (Just another cloud-based poem - my insomnia didn't go to waste!)

# data[].attributes.body
The wind that bowed
The hazel boughs
and filled the pond
with fallen leaves
then blew the flower
pots off the wall
A wild, relentless, screaming squall

It's three a.m,
the moon quite low
but bright, reveals
her fractured light
beyond the oak
tree's darkened form
and here and there
between the clouds faint stars appear

Throughout the day
that wind has howled
Throughout the night
'til three a.m
and now that
silence reigns again
I fight to sleep
Perhaps the silence is too deep

Chris Hammond
The place - my bed
The time - 4.30am