Purple Rain
As I slumber in a mantle that covers all human thoughts, I am awakened by the rain. Sweeping across the fields outside my window it lashes the panes leaving artistic rivulets of water obscuring my view. But the wind soon lost its strength and began to blow more leisurely. I like watching places wake up, the changing light, the mood of the sky and the freshness of the new morning. I love to listen to the song thrush that sings its song twice, but sadly not this morning.
In the midst of winter, we thought that the cold blustery season would never end, but take heart for spring is on its way. Look for the promising signs, the first growth of the early buds that grow taller each day. However, the rain has come again, but I kept my smile, its beauty arrests me. I must now shelter with my dear companion Maverick from the heavy raindrops which appear to shine so brightly, like crystals both dark and bright trembling, sparkling and twinkling like diamonds. So, it became known, purple rain falls from dark clouds above. Each droplet so perfect, they look like they could be strung together into a necklace.
Where Maverick and I took shelter, shafts of filtered sunlight broke through the tree canopy where he stood with his feet in sprays of ivy and became hidden in a mist of sun-fire. My early trickle of feelings swelled to a torrent when a rainbow appeared, one which signified a new beginning and a reminder of the beauty of life.
After the lashing rain, I could hear the ear-catching sounds of the chattering brook. I listened to the jets and rills on the stones which made the song of the stream as it flowed and carried its flotsam. Where collared doves and wood pigeons maintain a constant background, purring. So, I stayed with the music knowing that the words would come in time.
As I paused at the little pond amidst the trees, a willow tree bound with lichens and mosses leaned in the water below. With a quick sagacious gaze, I saw a kingfisher’s burnished plunge which came glancing like an arrow and stole my breath. I waited until I settled my breathing to a gentle rhythm where I got to a point of stillness.
As we wandered amongst the trees, a nuthatch in shaded covert hid. I pondered for a moment to observe how some trees were standing half-flayed and dying, but many others had subtle contours, some were straight, others curved, but I can also see a story in a fallen tree or the skeletal remains of a faded standing tree which have a strange kind of beauty all their own. The spring flowers of the woodland were abounded with splashes of colour. Wild primroses be-pearled with rain, wood anemones scattered like snow blossom, golden lesser celandines in masses and wild daffodils in bloom. The flowers are alive with bees pulsing like the throats of toads.
As darkness fell and we began to leave this magical place, I witnessed a moon-glade, a beaming flash of moonlight reflecting on the water where Hoot the resident owl’s lone echo wafts his notes along. Wherever Maverick and I wander, in shadows, meadows or lanes, in waving copse or in fields that let me see the open sky. I see nature in an exact and beautiful way. I must pause a while to reflect the events of the day, making notes in my working journal, for my natural mode of writing is my dreamwork, my solace, and it brings me back to where I’m meant to be. For the day would be lost to me if I didn’t write.
