Stirring Stuff

My spoon is rather…

Gorgeous.

How can I

Convey

The pleasure it brings

To the touch –

Supremely

Smooth,

I cannot resist

Running

That silken curve

Down my jawline –

Itself, admittedly,

Not as smooth

Nor as firm

As once it was

But still able

To luxuriate

In the

Feel

Of this miraculous piece

Of Spoon-Smith’s

Craftsmanship;

Hard to resist

Once the initial

Contact

Has been made.

Then back to

My thumb

Caressing

The barely

Hollowed wood…

Hallowed wood

A feast for

All the senses;

My eyes follow

The richly diverse

Tones of the grain

Which seems to

Emulate

The silken tresses

Of an expensively

High-lighted head;

I close my eyes

And inhale

The distinctively

Subtle scent

Of the

Tung Oil-moisturised

Skin –

Ah… stirred by a

Wooden spoon!

wooden spoon 20150127_192731_resized

A Bed of Flowers

An image

Of the season’s

First daffodils

Brings a lump to

My throat.

A rebirth

That springs from the soil,

A smile to brighten

The winter gloom –

A reminder

That life

Is not

Diminished

By being within

The earth.

A yellow glow

Suffuses the

stone cross

And the lantern

Promises

Illumination

When the way

Is dark.

Sleep well,

On this

Mothering  Sunday

Your Mother

Brings you flowers…

daffodils

Surrounded by Sound

Shutting my eyes I am surrounded by sound.

From the whirr of the electronic fan

in my PC  to the loud ticking of

a timer switch hiding amongst the books

and the dusty clock on the mantelpiece.

There’s a crunching rustle of newspaper

as my leg twitches under the laptop;

warm at the knee and cold by the time my

awareness travels further down to my

slipper-clad toes.  I shiver – I almost

hear my teeth chattering…

Enchantment

My feet sink into the freshly-mown springy softness of the grass that skirts the meadow and leads to the wood. I am transported to a magical world; where dragonflies appear as threads hovering above your toes and v-backed lizards lie dozing in dark spaces. Here tiny caterpillars take refuge under the miniscule white flowers of cow parsley umbrellas, while the smallest acorns imaginable start to grow before your eyes on the knobbly oak twigs that hang over the track. Hopefully, we pick a few galls, intending to make my own ink; only to discover that a rich brown hue only comes from the later growths. I leave them in my pocket – if only to take a piece of the enchantment home with me.
In this wondrous place we are transported to another realm where cuckoos do not spit, yet frog-hoppers do, and baby grasshoppers note our passage. Deep crevasses lie underfoot and we take care, joking that if one slips we will have to use Rapunzel’s hair to rescue the other.
As I leave, the damsel in question sits combing through her endless tresses with her fingers. I almost offer to show her where the teasels grow but am loath to disturb such reverie, she seems to be so wistfully drinking in the scene – sketchpad at the ready to record the confined perspective of her gaze.

Absorbing

I leave behind the humid warmth of the shower cubicle and step into the chill of the bathroom with its built-in dawn chorus radio. Grabbing a towel from the warm radiator beside me, I cocoon myself in its delicious, freshly-laundered softness. Hugging the comforting layers to my damp body, I stop there for a few moments – absorbing everything.

In Security

Little put downs and point-scoring

Come as second nature to you,

I recognise it for what it is.

A deep need to gain approval

By trampling on other’s feelings  –

Making them feel small and insignificant

And yourself feel better.

I hope it helped

but I’m not sure

that it did underneath.

I see you for what you are.

What you do.

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