Thursday, 1 May 2014

In Praise of Lacework OR At Earth Mother's Loom

Regular readers will also know that it is now more than three years since an MRI scan revealed a growth in my prostate. A biopsy revealed it was cancerous. However, the cancer was diagnosed as non-aggressive and regular hormone therapy continues (so far) to keep it from becoming so.  Meanwhile, I can only do what I have done since early childhood and trust nature to do its best by me.

I take great pleasure and reassurance from gentle strolls on nearby Hampstead Heath; its quiet grassy slopes and lively pockets of trees; signs and sounds of the seasons as they come and go; glittering ponds alive with the chatter of ducks, swans, and moorhens...

Since I came to live in the Kentish Town area of London nearly 30 years ago, I have often gone to the Heath with a view to letting its sensual beauty invade my senses, experience that ‘Oh, but it’s so good to be alive!’ feeling with which Earth Mother has sustained me through just about every crisis in my life; even when I attempted suicide during an extended period of severe mental breakdown some 30 years ago, she brought me back from the brink.

My late mother used to urge me to ‘listen for, watch and learn from nature.’ Moreover, ‘Far better,’ she’d say. ‘ retreat into nature than into yourself.’ That was many years ago and her words ring as true to me now (at 68) as they did when I was a child.

In the language of flowers, the yellow rose is for remembrance.  (See also my poem, The Zen of Yellow Roses) Yes, I often look back at happier times in my life and those who made it so, and feel inspired to make the most of each day left to me rather than nurse regrets for what might have been…

This poem is a villanelle.


Go where the wind blows
(across time and space)
fair petals of a yellow rose

See how each cloud shows
a non-judgmental face;
go where the wind blows

Be as the fallen seed grows
risen to beauty and grace,
fair petals of a yellow rose

See how Earth Mother sows
dreams into wintry lace;
go where the wind blows

Ghosts of a time that knows
and keeps safe our place,
fair petals of a yellow rose

Hear a lark in its last throes,
pass on its plea for peace;
go where the wind blows
fair petals of a yellow rose

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

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