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Twenty-First Century Willow

weeping willow with the sun shining through its leaves and a bench seat underneath
I have always been proud of my body:
lithe, supple, quite elastic. Watch me while I
bow to reach my delicately painted toenails.
I have always been supple.

My sturdy trunk withstands the wind which
gently stirs my slender limbs and sets me
swaying, tossed like the ocean’s waves,
rippling the fronds of my lime-green hair.

Don’t waste your pity on me. I have a reputation
for weeping but I am content with my lot.
I am not one of those weepy women
you love to despise. Snivelling, you call it.

I have always been flexible. Don’t let
that thought mislead you into imagining
that I am easily led. Supple, flexible,
I may be. Pliable, I am not.

If you are inclined to stay, we may indulge ourselves
in a little laziness. Rest a while beneath my boughs,
see how I catch the sunlight in my hair
and we will dip our toes together in the river’s flow.

I am a little moody, a touch melancholy
you might say, and inclined to droop.
There are times, I admit, when the river flows by
unheeding and I crave a little company.


Julia Duke

 

Photo by Jan Antonin Kolar via Unsplash

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Becalmed

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A Way of Life

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Yesterday’s heat evaporates taking with it the fierce glare of the sun. Yesterday, sunlight glanced off hills, danced on rivers, but I am used to this gentle Welsh spirit that now envelops the landscape, soft green mist that returns to the hills, softening edges, softening mood. Curvaceous, a line of grey green hills etched in waves of leafiness, dark green towering oaks, hedgerows draped with dog roses, flat, rounded clusters of elderflowers, the gracious sweep of the bronzed maple. Tutored by nature’s harmony, my eye picks out the tell-tale signs of human intervention, marks alien pylons astride hilltops. Tall, straight telegraph poles push their way up through trees, geometric road signs warn of hidden dangers, along straight, tarmacked roads. The sign for Maesmawr Farm shouts its rectilinear message, tempting me with luxury lodges. The arrow points straight to them. Even the forestry commission superimposes its orderly rows on nature’s wayward curves. But the rolling hills triumph,...
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That Coastal Feeling

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A Mindful Reunion

We meet in silence Clutching blankets brought from home, Holding memories from a year ago When scars were raw, Heads disguised by wigs And tears too salt to weep. I found words difficult then. ‘Body scan’ Was not a mindful exercise But a machine at the end of a corridor. There were places in my body I could not touch with thought. Like chrysalis we scatter the floor Each section of our being Revisited with childlike curiosity, Sensations magnified, the tickle of wool, the press of cotton. A forgotten ache from an ankle. Our teacher’s voice Both lesson and lullaby Returning to the breath Again and again We try to train our thoughts; Naughty as puppies With Baskerville bites I find peacefulness within the ordinary, Rest my head in the soft cushion of a second Savouring the beauty of this moment, Both rooted in earth and reaching for stars. Jacqueline Woods
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