Senses stir, ruffled fur; a bird floats on a thermal, lifting its wings.
A breath of air, a scent on the wind. A salty tang, an ozone explosion.
Fragile leaves, a changing song. A sultry breeze; ripples on a pond.
A falling feather, forgotten bones. A place where one feels the need for silence.
A chill on the skin… ancestral walks with kin.
Trees whisper words, no longer understood
in the forgotten language
…in the dappled light
…in the sacred wood
…in the dreaming pool
As autumn creeps up on us, fragility is obvious in the landscape, alongside great abundance and the clear light of a changing season.
There are moments in a day when things become translucent…when light falls specifically on one blade of grass, a water droplet, a bee’s wing, ripples on a pond, a fragile leaf… the world slows, stills… and the white noise of the world, falls away.
All that is left, is the ebb and flow of life… a heartbeat song.
Walk softly… let things flow towards and away… Awen /|\
A rose, saturated with morning dew, begins to become transparent… barely there.
Harvest time, Dahlia time. Wild berries abound in the hedgerows; elder, blackberry, hawthorn and rowan… picked when ripe, they leave stains on fingers and lips.
Chestnut and hazel, begin to show prickly green and crunchy brown casings, hiding their magical fruit within. It’s always a battle for even a few as possum, currawong, raven, gang gang and cockatoo are all alert for the right moment of ripening.
Rosehips form on the rump of fading flowers, holding their seeds close in the waxy pod… soon they’ll become syrup and balm; the former for sweet treats rich in vitamin C, the latter for soothing, dry tender skin.
Wild berries will become syrup for the pantry, (a wee drop in a honey mead, warmed through, is a winter delight for the circulation), jams, relishes, fruit tarts or macerated to make tinctures for the herbal apothecary.
Nothing is wasted and only just what is needed is taken, leaving food for hungry maws and mouths.