Triptychs

Poppies                           Seed heads                      Diminishing Seed heads.

 

 

Apples                                  Apples as food                        Apples decaying

cowslips

bluebells

Remembrance.

I found this beautiful poem about the Poppy. The author is unknown.

“The inquisitive mind of a child”

Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?
Selling poppies in town today.
The poppies, child, are flowers of love.
For the men who marched away.

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?
Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died
In the fields where the poppies grow.

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?
Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child.
The blood that our soldiers shed.

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.
Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.
For the men who never came back.

But why, Mummy are you crying so?
Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child.
For the world is forgetting again.

Author Unknown

Delicate

perfection

light

circular

delicate

perfection

self perpetuating

perfectly spherical

floats on the breeze

TRINITY

3 is the magic number

3 is a prime number

divisible

by itself and one

God in three persons

the Blessed Trinity

3 in 1

and

1 in 3

Father,

Son

Holy Spirit

rooted together

Never to be separated

together for ever

for us

given

in

LOVE

Margaret P Higham

Beautiful Bluebells

BLUEBELLS IN HARDY COUNTRY

The Bluebell

The bluebell is the sweetest flower

That waves in summer air;

Its blossoms have the mightiest power

To soothe my spirit’s care.

There is a spell in purple heath

Too wildly, sadly dear;

The violet has a fragrant breath

But fragrance will not cheer.

The trees are bare, the sun is cold;

And seldom, seldom seen;

The heavens have lost their zone of gold

The earth its robe of green;

And ice upon the glancing stream

Has cast its sombre shade

And distant hills and valleys seem

In frozen mist arrayed –

The bluebell cannot charm me now

The heath has lost its bloom,

The violets in the glen below

They yield no sweet perfume.

But though I mourn the heather-bell

‘Tis better far, away;

I know how fast my tears would swell

To see it smile today;

And that wood flower that hides so shy

Beneath the mossy stone

Its balmy scent and dewy eye:

‘Tis not for them I moan.

It is the slight and stately stem,

The blossom’s silvery blue,

The buds hid like a sapphire gem

In sheaths of emerald hue.

‘Tis these that breathe upon my heart

A calm and softening spell

That if it makes the tear-drop start

Has power to soothe as well.

For these I weep, so long divided

Through winter’s dreary day,

In longing weep–but most when guided

On withered banks to stray.

If chilly then the light should fall

Adown the dreary sky

And gild the dank and darkened wall

With transient brilliancy,

How do I yearn, how do I pine

For the time of flowers to come,

And turn me from that fading shine

To mourn the fields of home –

By Emily Bronte

old mans beard.

Old Man’s Beard

What we failed to see
was twines of the wild clematis
climbing all summer
through each burdened tree:

Not till the leaves were gone
did we begin to take
the measure of what strength
had fed from the limestone

That roof of feathered seed
bearding the woods now
in its snowy foliage
yet before fall of snow

And what silent cordage bound
the galaxy together where
December light reflected
from star on hairy star

Innumerably united
in a cascade, a cloud, a wing
to hang their canopy above
the roots they were strangling.

By    Charles Tomlinson