Daisies by the Roadside

When I was a child,

not so ruled by clocks and calendars, 

the first white daisies on the roadside

said summertime to me.

I picked those daisies by the armful.

Mom smiled and thanked me for the gift

despite the bugs who came along for the ride.

I put them in jars of coloured water,

and watched, fascinated,

as they drank deeply and changed before my eyes.

Daisy chains sufficient to circle the globe

were woven beneath cloud-drift, sunlit skies.

There were other things too:

Wild roses twined with honeysuckle

grazed by does through wire fences,

wobbly-legged fawns with dappled white coats

hidden in the shade nearby,

Birds singing in the dark an hour before sunrise,

and bats taking wing in evening skies,

Mild morning air

making bare-legged bike rides

for the first time not a punishment,

But,

then and still,

white daisies by the roadside
say summertime to me.

Quiet Pleasures

Spring often wakes late here
- sleeping through her alarm clock -

then jumps out of bed

and,

drawing her brightly coloured shawl around her,

runs out the door

strewing blossoms all around

in glorious disarray.

So enchanted are we

by her blousy blossoms,

her bright tulips,

her sweet pansies,

and forget-me-nots,

that we sometimes overlook

the quiet aspects of her charm

but,

while she is rushing by,

tender ferns are unfurling

in the darkling wood.

Tiny creatures are exploring.

Shy fawn lilies 

are hiding

under maple trees

who are, 
in their turn, 
hiding blooms

among the sweet tender-green
 of new leaves.

Even the streams are blessed

with the transient jewelry

of blossom confetti,

strewn upon their waters.

Hush.
They are waiting.

White on White

Snow falls but rarely here,

and when it does,

strangers

stop each other on the street

to lament its inconvenience.

But I am grateful 

for the beauty

of white on white,

for still church yards,

undisturbed

by passers-by,

for country views

as quiet

as a whisper,

for wild rose hips

wearing winter caps,

for strong arbutus trees

raising rust-hued branches

toward the snow-greyed skies,

 and for yellow-ochre willow twigs

shouting defiantly

that Spring is on the way.

So brief,

these still, white moments,

so transient,

so sweet.
I am grateful
for each and every one.

October

November is about to chase 

October from the stage

but, 

just now,

she holds her place, 

clutching hard

both to the gifts of summer, 

and her memories of spring.

All the while

her robes change colour 

and her glories fall at her feet.

Sweet October,

in nature as in life,

a transient glory,

but all the more precious

for her fragile beauty 

and her memories.

Trails and Trees

Sometimes it seems that life presents

an impenetrable barrier to me;

all the world standing,
arms akimbo,

blocking my way,

beautiful,
implacable,

and not a little frightening

but if I look long enough

I eventually see

a path through the forest

beckoning to me.

At first it seems 
both wide and welcoming

winding gently,

lit by sunlight,

and cooled by dappled shade

but then
the way grows more difficult,

and barriers appear

and even nature
seems to wind upon itself;
twisting, twisting,
ever-changing.

I fear I've lost my way.

In that moment

- just when I feel most lost -

I see blue sky before me.

It is at first
just a suggestion of light,

but still enough

to keep me going

until I find my way,

arriving at my destination
and,

beautiful as it is,

glorious in light and magnitude,

I know 
I would not appreciate it

half so much

had I not
got lost along the way.

Genoa Bay

Ceruleun skies

led me outdoors,

along winding roads,

to a little spit of land

where water meets stone

and starfish live,

where mussels adorn

hard edges

and cling to mooring ropes,

where weathered wood

and rusted metal

support floating homes

and potted gardens,

where strawberries grow

next to salt water,

and tall sunflowers

nod against rust brown trellises,

where yellow boats
sport dark red sails, 

and weathered jetties

bridge still waters

mirroring gold leaves.

I found Autumn there.

She reached out warm hued fingers

and took my heart
gently
in her hands.

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Sunset

Two summers ago I moved to this place.

Or back to it.
 It was my childhood home,
but I regretted leaving the windswept beaches

and rugged scenery

of my north island town.

This new home is a gentler place 

with rolling green pastoral fields

instead of the sharp blue peaks

I was accustomed to seeing in the distance.

One night, 

desperate,

I phoned my brother and said

"Please, take me where the water is!"

He took me to the estuary

and, although the light was beautiful,

I was disappointed

by tame scenery

and level green fields.

Mother Nature must have felt my disappointment

because,

as the sun began to set,

she showed me pyrotechnics

the likes of which I'd never seen before.

She lit the sky with oranges, reds, and purples

that were reflected

in the quiet waters

and,

with that single spectacular event,

tied my heart to this new place

so that,

even when I'm bored

or sad,

I still remember

brilliant sunset hues.

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Please be respectful of my work.  All the photographs in this post are protected by copyright and may not be used without my written permission.
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This post is linked to Simple Things Sunday hosted by Simple As That, to Gallery of Favorites hosted by Premeditated Leftovers and The 21st Century Housewife, and to Saturday Night Special hosted by Funky Junk Interiors.