We are very pleased to have welcomed Sarah Wordsworth as our poet-in-residence for much of the year. Her thoughtful presence and extensive horticultural knowledge was both a joy and an asset to all of us.
Here is a selection of her works inspired by Plas Bodfa
The Water Cycle
To fall further than the living,
And grow as crystals in midair
Light as wren’s down
Hush, hush the world to sleep beneath,
the weight of magic and fallen starlight.
To flow beneath the warmth of longer days
as you lick boulders, carrying the taste of
granite and schist, and the gleaming seams
which stitch the land.
To be clothed in silver by the Moon, which hides
your depths. Your belly full of
rocks and wriggling. And you stole the light,
and broke it,
into tumbling shards
As you race to the sea.
To pour thunder and rainbows from cliffs,
soaking air and sight and sound and skin.
Green the caverns of emerald cushions, hypnotise
the breath from all who venture near.
To bullet the puddles into crowns
And seethe the lake’s dance floor with
the drums of a thousand feet, and roll
down the sheen of green when you pause
in the soft nape of a Mallard.
To lie amidst the mountains in scars
gouged by furious ice with iron knuckles.
And show the sky how to move the mood
of your face and tangle it with reeds and flight.
To fold billowing emulsion through a cold dawn
over ridge and peak, smothering them in
soft treachery. Until the tenth hour lifts
your flocks of white in heavenly spires
as you are inhaled to the Sun.
To know all of this …..
Is to know water.
September in the Meadow
September has stolen the hues of summer,
washed them out,
leached into the rich earth,
as it waits patiently to be fed.
Lingering rebels of coltsfoot,
Seem scattered and disparate,
And the punchy pink heads of Clover,
Subside into rusty hues.
All is now seed.
All is now hope held in umbels and pods,
Drumsticks and feathers.
The trees seem watchful,
looming over changeling neighbour,
Still dark with the syphoning green that drinks the sun.
The ends of boughs have begun to fret
Worry is coloured gold and bronze.
They are well stated today, but
leaner times will swoop down,
brought by the chill from the mountaintops,
and the dark rages of the sea,
Geese point the way,
noisily honking their directions.
But the plantain cannot follow,
It must bob in the breeze,
and scatter its children with hope,
amongst the dwindling lushness.
Shimmering into existence,
from the depths of the Hawthorn,
Linnets swoop to Milk Thistle,
and vanish as quickly as they came.
Gone is the lazy buzz of banqueting.
Carders scavenge hungrily,
before the feast is cleared away.
The Meadow feels sad.
The party has ended, and soon
they will all be turfed out.
I was not here for the walk
I was not here for the walk.
I was here for the sound.
For the thrashing onslaught,
and the chunnering retreat.
How far was inconsequential.
It was not measured by legs,
in strides and crunches.
It was measured by my heart,
as it expanded across the horizon.
I was not here for the walk.
I was here for every detail,
each droplet of foam as it rose,
through the air.
Each brown and grey.
Each incongruous white.
The purses of mermaids,
and the golden strike that parts,
the clouds and lands up on the cliffs.
I was not here for the walk.
I was here to feel each roll of the ankle,
each articulation of the arch and toes,
as they held the land,
and knew it.
I was here to feel the gentle threat,
of droplets on my face,
as towards the darkening broody hills,
I fearlessly strode.
I was not here for the walk.
I was here to marvel at each,
heart-shaped stone which drew my eye,
and felt like a warning.
Here you could sit cold, alone and buffeted.
Better to be seen,
and slipped into an admiring pocket,
to be taken home and treasured.
Home, into the warmth.
Home into the familiar.
Safe
I was not here for the walk.
I was here to be terrified,
Awed into silenced.
Moved by your majesty.
I was here to have my cheeks bitten numb,
And my temples prodded sore by your frozen fingers.
I was here to feel alive.
There was no trig point to be tagged,
no Wainwright to be bagged,
just this simple, mad cacophony that told me I was free.
Goldfinch Meditation
They are so flighty and nervous. Descending on the field of thistles like a flurry of windblown leaves. They twitter with collective anxiety, calling, checking in on one another. Most of them are feeding, but a few sit on loftier perches above the fading meadow’s lushness. They sit and watch to be relieved of duty by another member of the flock with rhythmic regularity.
Do the chirps and calls keep time for them?
And all of a sudden, my presence calls them back into the air. They scatter in panic to the nearest perch for safety, far away from this terrestrial threat. I still myself and watch. I watch as their impulse to flock kicks in. They function together, they are so closely connected by a bond of interdependency that they can't bear to be apart for longer than a few moments. I have no idea how the decision is made, but the majority of the flock scattered to a mature Sycamore tree. They rise from the crown, just enough to be seen, and then settle back once more into the canopy. It was as though to call out, “Here we are!” It worked. From harbours all around, tiny groups dart to the safety of their friends, the safety of the tree. They regroup and pause. Taking a collective breath, they decide that the danger is over, and once again descend upon the meadow. A high sweeping arc trails from the branches, allowing them to confirm that any threat has passed before they settle again to feed.
I watched this ritual from my table and chair by the caravan. It is a mesmerising and enthralling dance full of detail in every aspect of its choreography. As a member of the audience I am privileged to observe distantly, with calm composure. I can allow myself the luxury of being soothed by their soft twittering song and the simple act of sitting and being. I am calmed at a cellular level. This goes so deep that I almost forget I have a body at all. I am an ethereal observer absorbing sights and sounds as a blessing directly into the soul. And isn't that what meditation is, being able to absorb a moment, absorb it as nourishment in whatever form it is fed to you? Some moments are harder to digest than others, but this one is a delectable lemon posset my friend Ruth makes. It slips down so easily. The unctuous, creamy oats with a tang of sweet citrus that makes you smile behind the eyes as you close them. Savouring. And then it occurs to me that perhaps this is the wrong moment to enjoy being lulled by their shifting throng and conversation because whilst my heart is slow and steady, they are so anxious, anxious to simply survive. Their behaviour comes about from a need to fulfil a basic survival imperative of eat, and try not to get eaten whilst you're doing it! As a flock, they are tightly bonded together by the act of feeding. The organisation is such that there are always members on lookout, patiently waiting their turn at the vantage points, staying vigilant and alert to danger. I wonder if those whose cleverly adapted beaks are pulling seeds from the thistles are, for these brief moments relaxed and enjoying their food? Are they so focused on gaining enough calories to fuel the day that they forget about the Sparrowhawks who nested in the woods nearby? Do they have unerring faith in the watchers? Are all goldfinches created equal, with equal trust and equal observational skills? I am no bird behaviourist but I am fascinated by the signals, the timing and how coordinated they are. How do they know when to hop up above the milk thistle and on to the towering hogweed when it is their time to watch? Are they so tuned in to the needs of one another that they know? Their intuition is unerring.
I am truly envious of this level of connection, but not of the driver which makes it necessary. Can I do this? Can I be envious of their oneness, their community led behaviour and still enjoy watching it as a soothing meditation? Can it be all?
The anxiety which cements them together is one of their strongest assets. It is how they have learned to survive as a species, through cooperation, through coordination and through an enviable level of organisation.
They have no other way.
I smile, I sip my coffee and I watched the show.