A poet has my heart.
He keeps it between the pages of a leather-bound book
IN THE TURNING of this year from green to red, I have found a treasure. A treasure long dreamed of, that was hidden in the stories I imagined as a child, and in the woods of my young pondering, and in the margins just beyond the edges of my paintings.
Here in the umber days of autumn, I sit smiling, astounded and thankful at this wonderful heart harvest. How life's wheel turns!
Nature's red congregation joins with my heart in gleeing:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyD5VuQwMlnv9ILLgi7oJdHV8nDGSPHGdZVkXRHMrNlCNvaUzgZy2lD7HLXPHhveDUQv0cKefqnD72Qe5eFgy_7v-eY2mF7Khsow5oUSLoHxw7iFli2_oSq-XgNHAIdWCEcQrezr7MFj0/s400/bouquet+roses.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhjRJKbi88-EDsRdk0niGPuZX18CMtKHgV4L9HUYe-2L4OALPkTGrEoAXkeeaAt_ajXqo0PgsdA951ORRjyLSQct-a95wwQ1QpgXuK1frlOV8TtRFyz_nOJzCgrMAt5ppx7iebN8LTaM/s400/grey+wethers+2.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPFvCukYUCsZHcXAXSwUS5_jY6x2PlL02H7Dzi0gWo8F9HvGp_wNL76YHyuDuZUG8VACYe84nUI4JluQ02DhNvMF5b_r7voMJsQb0SsEhqu7bF9gG9EloPcsImBkGHwGSzglC74cBNGrw/s400/grey+wethers+1.jpg)
And as the green of spring and the red of love mix in the paint tray of this wonderful landscape of my days, I wonder about those two circles: Are they magician's rings? Are they my new friend the number 8? Are they ∞ - the lemniscate or infinity symbol, for balance of forces?
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-GOpqM0e9JR7M1_dv7SV7MYC7a73LPA8hSaAJwA7sIojqzLBH-P65Hg07vdbrsVcbfcK7SPHL0BQPDqeFJkVJkbfOAuzdTPK-jvdwrRmIdgJL6SZw_TkkdhbeTM0rWW56gtpfZdg9VU/s400/dartmoor+1.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHenD96JPRl67vBXZp9BepONbxbUeF4FwitaPvP9iGeoQ9fr7z2hh1L5GkPiVNR5Fn349Q2q7iP8_XvLIAob4YBycRMhtQeCG-PaUQ-LX5KIkdPdo8M1vYfETx78Wt7-9zEXk8B0BY_7w/s400/meldon.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHtftRWNkiUVP81BR3TQJPA8wIF_91zQspQqE5n3jbgHnZ3a2jCvARwTIMRpMwHDnq2lpZ0Nx5QIgz3sbG_rT_5_kcqvZe3CbKxvGtR2k1f04SvN5sFYqfD0cofCqw5vRzNXRr_c58e8/s400/rima+%26+tom.jpg)
pressed petal-like under paper.
Word-etched pages of his
clasp me in translucence
like breath between praying palms.
He gave me his heart too, this spring.
And I keep it in the paint box
Word-etched pages of his
clasp me in translucence
like breath between praying palms.
He gave me his heart too, this spring.
And I keep it in the paint box
as my twenty seventh colour,
an ink-blood dearness
that curtains over white page:
Aurora Borealis to my snow.
that curtains over white page:
Aurora Borealis to my snow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IN THE TURNING of this year from green to red, I have found a treasure. A treasure long dreamed of, that was hidden in the stories I imagined as a child, and in the woods of my young pondering, and in the margins just beyond the edges of my paintings.
Here in the umber days of autumn, I sit smiling, astounded and thankful at this wonderful heart harvest. How life's wheel turns!
Nature's red congregation joins with my heart in gleeing:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyD5VuQwMlnv9ILLgi7oJdHV8nDGSPHGdZVkXRHMrNlCNvaUzgZy2lD7HLXPHhveDUQv0cKefqnD72Qe5eFgy_7v-eY2mF7Khsow5oUSLoHxw7iFli2_oSq-XgNHAIdWCEcQrezr7MFj0/s400/bouquet+roses.jpg)
And roses from a bride's bouquet... passed to me with a wink ;)
![](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_spNnkPNwsl0qJRBdvVKrPf94JX-RTx7mB45tVLDe_ZOa8tbCBb7xWUPX5SzRxGTP67GzTFRYW8hKwUX6LGCbI2DWjX3Wh6yka-HIh7JeAm5wEDqj_ixdXTcK4ksw63=s0-d)
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Yes! Love has come to my hearth and heart, and his dear name is Tom :)
He is indeed a poet! Let me show you some of his beautiful words. Here on this leaf-browning equinox, I'll balance the scales of the year with poetry and prose of his that speak so eloquently of Spring:
He is indeed a poet! Let me show you some of his beautiful words. Here on this leaf-browning equinox, I'll balance the scales of the year with poetry and prose of his that speak so eloquently of Spring:
I cannot say in words how deeply his wordsmithing and his arrival have affected me. I am stunned and grinning and Happy Beyond Happy! And we look forward with delight to word and image weaving to add to the already bubbling Baba Yaga's cauldron of forest-sleeping, moor-trekking, shooting star-gazing, fireside-storytelling, music-making, home-building. With us in our little nest lives Macha the hound with a piece of the Other World in her left eye, who has rather won my heart too.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoqhzuP8sXJXkbl5Vj7rmntCSTvHHQ6PY7cGu1_z5zD6vnpxdO4dZ1KGPm8bs_aix6AXMqOse-Hfm3Bf0CGOS8fXUG3hzfCxHgjdhewhuWit73rb6MIYOeHzt_PGGMyQOuvZZhAajVM8/s400/macha+on+the+moor.jpg)
My September birthday this year was spent walking across the moors with my love to two rings of stones, edged by wild horses and windblown tussocks. These are the Grey Wethers, a rare double stone circle side by side. There we drank chai from a thermos and embraced the winds of autumn arriving across the moor.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoqhzuP8sXJXkbl5Vj7rmntCSTvHHQ6PY7cGu1_z5zD6vnpxdO4dZ1KGPm8bs_aix6AXMqOse-Hfm3Bf0CGOS8fXUG3hzfCxHgjdhewhuWit73rb6MIYOeHzt_PGGMyQOuvZZhAajVM8/s400/macha+on+the+moor.jpg)
My September birthday this year was spent walking across the moors with my love to two rings of stones, edged by wild horses and windblown tussocks. These are the Grey Wethers, a rare double stone circle side by side. There we drank chai from a thermos and embraced the winds of autumn arriving across the moor.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhjRJKbi88-EDsRdk0niGPuZX18CMtKHgV4L9HUYe-2L4OALPkTGrEoAXkeeaAt_ajXqo0PgsdA951ORRjyLSQct-a95wwQ1QpgXuK1frlOV8TtRFyz_nOJzCgrMAt5ppx7iebN8LTaM/s400/grey+wethers+2.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPFvCukYUCsZHcXAXSwUS5_jY6x2PlL02H7Dzi0gWo8F9HvGp_wNL76YHyuDuZUG8VACYe84nUI4JluQ02DhNvMF5b_r7voMJsQb0SsEhqu7bF9gG9EloPcsImBkGHwGSzglC74cBNGrw/s400/grey+wethers+1.jpg)
And as the green of spring and the red of love mix in the paint tray of this wonderful landscape of my days, I wonder about those two circles: Are they magician's rings? Are they my new friend the number 8? Are they ∞ - the lemniscate or infinity symbol, for balance of forces?
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-GOpqM0e9JR7M1_dv7SV7MYC7a73LPA8hSaAJwA7sIojqzLBH-P65Hg07vdbrsVcbfcK7SPHL0BQPDqeFJkVJkbfOAuzdTPK-jvdwrRmIdgJL6SZw_TkkdhbeTM0rWW56gtpfZdg9VU/s400/dartmoor+1.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHenD96JPRl67vBXZp9BepONbxbUeF4FwitaPvP9iGeoQ9fr7z2hh1L5GkPiVNR5Fn349Q2q7iP8_XvLIAob4YBycRMhtQeCG-PaUQ-LX5KIkdPdo8M1vYfETx78Wt7-9zEXk8B0BY_7w/s400/meldon.jpg)
I stand on this autumnal hill of my 31 years and breathe in deep the air of life and Unfolding Story in Dartmoor's mists and I breathe out a shout full to brimming with joy, and thanks, and wonder rekindled, and love.
And, smiling, I imagine a bird in my mind's eye, soaring high above this life-hill of mine, writing loops in the sky like this: ∞
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHtftRWNkiUVP81BR3TQJPA8wIF_91zQspQqE5n3jbgHnZ3a2jCvARwTIMRpMwHDnq2lpZ0Nx5QIgz3sbG_rT_5_kcqvZe3CbKxvGtR2k1f04SvN5sFYqfD0cofCqw5vRzNXRr_c58e8/s400/rima+%26+tom.jpg)