An ivy-choked tree symbolic of these strange times. Sink into the earth or focus on the blue sky. Go!Tunnel through the tangle.
We’ve just had a gentle heatwave here in the South of England. The birds have sung from dawn until dusk. My garden is in bloom in the sort of wondrous clashing colours that only nature can pull off with aplomb. And my creativity has returned.
Thus, I’ve written two eco-poems for competitions, plus I know exactly what I’m going to write for three short story competitions. Meanwhile, a twenty by twenty-four-inch canvas is glaring at my back from its easel, if a quarter-painted landscape/seascape can be said to glare. (Yes, canvas, I’m going to retrieve my paintbrushes from the cupboard soon.)
So, what has everybody else been doing or not doing in the last couple of months?
Vision of beauty. Down yonder, in bluebell woods, my chocolate dog. Love immortalised in paint, such sweet banishment of gloom.
Word Count: 100
BACK TO NATURE
The rising sun cut a crimson strip between the oak and ash. A well-sprung tuffet of moss by the stream picked up its positive vibes. Sun now. Rain later. Perfect.
All is well, called out a blackbird.
I’m the greatest, rasped the magpie.
Cawed blimey, croaked the crow.
The moss zinged from its rhizoids up through its iodine-rich gametophytes and sporophytes. It was well and truly among friends.
Or so it thought, in its elemental mossy way.
Until a humungous hairy human arse* descended like a shit-smeared moon out of nowhere, to wipe and disinfect its arse on yours truly.
[*The UK spelling. In the US, it is an ass, whether a human posterior or a domestic donkey, which presumably would make an ass’s nether region an ass ass!]
In twenty-twenty the pandemic killed my words and soothed me with art. Now it's twenty-twenty-one, who knows which muse will triumph?