“Beware, O wanderer, the road is walking too.”
― Jim Harrison
the trick is to rise up
with the mountain,
and not to bring it
down beneath your feet
not all who wander
will understand this
and for this reason,
I tell no one the way
and keep the starred
avalanche lilies
for my own selfish
roaming self
© Sarah Whiteley
light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still
words now
would be thin and
near to useless
hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,
and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks
pretending
flowers where
there are none
© Sarah Whiteley
our forsythia doesn’t bloom,
never having been properly pruned
the workmen (dirty-jeaned, bantering)
being more adept at paint and plumbing
than the etiquette of flowers
© Sarah Whiteley
I imagine the mint went first,
followed closely by the flares
of the nasturtiums, and the phlox
the day of the uprooting
the delphiniums would have been
crushed, curls of pearl and sky,
into the soil that fed the roses
when the garden was pulled
yet strange that the winter sage
was left alone beside the rue
beneath the emptied trellis
© Sarah Whiteley
Yesterday marked 7 years since I first started ebbtide. 7 years since I made the conscious decision to begin writing again in an attempt to reclaim the creative side of myself that I felt was being pushed aside or squashed by the everyday. 7 years of readers, of sharing, of emerging friendships which could not have happened without this blog.
And so thank you to all of you who have passed through this little corner of the world, whether you’ve left a mark or not. Thank you for the support and the kindness and the critiques over the years. This place has been my succor and my salvation in many ways. And I am beyond appreciative for the positive changes that have come about as a result. So thank you.
in one last,
luminous bloom
-summer erupts-
golden, wondrous
sun-drenched sentiment
a perfectly
whorled farewell
© Sarah Whiteley
a brace of camellia buds,
pale gold and swollen,
nod knowingly in the rain
March puddles may come,
but the thrush still shouts
when he’s discovered his mate
April is at the threshold
and soon a parish of sparrows
will be singing themselves silly
in the branches of the wild plum
© Sarah Whiteley
now the jasmine’s done,
the Russian sage stands
taller, though leggy
in the September sun
and I begin to look
for purple bursts of
asters on my walks
here and there,
the anemones still bloom,
though half-droop as if
weary of the effort
to shine beside their
hardier counterparts
soon the crows will
gather in the beech tree
in raucous reunion –
a return to their winter
roost-mates and safety
in dark numbers
and I find comfort
in the crunch of leaves
the fires dripped
by trees for me to
ponder through, always
the words blooming
and roosting raucously
in my wandering head
© Sarah Whiteley
The first (and the absolute worst) of the work deadlines is past and I’ve somehow again managed to muddle through it. Tired, ruffled, feeling very behind on writing and reading, but alive all the same – and that is enough for now to be thankful for. Looking forward to a weekend of relaxing and catching up on the dusting before things pick up for the second work deadline. And I’ve got LOTS of reading to catch up on!
