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This extravagant moorland has a stark beauty, softened by gentle shrouding mists. Translucent pearl mantles the opulence of the land. Velvet expanse of heather embroidered, intricate with rich silk greens, raw silver and spun gold grasses. A coin-pale disk of sun cloud-curtained, gleams – wrestles – wins through, and briefly ignites folded hills. A furtive […]
After all these years, how do I find new words to say “I love you”? I’d have thought so many seasons would wear the old ones rather thin, like favourite jeans. My love for you is threaded through each day. Every time I use the words again they carry with them all the past I-love-you’s […]
Pain eddies in the hollow spaces, swirls round granite words now submerged now bare. Tattered promises, first flung then current-caught, still struggle to stay afloat. More weary grown, almost despairing of still waters, restoration. — Christine Rigden
Once-upon-a-time summers now just a dream of sunshine and seashores ocean waves and breezes and endless days. Long, warm, lazy hours lying in golden sun soaking up memories: happy sounds, and laughter gentle sounds, and peace. A glowing time, discovering (in long walks, and evenings and sailing with the wind) the person I call me. […]
Uprooted, my torn life is firmly held. “She loves Me, she loves Me not . . . ” – each petal falls. Bereft, my answer still remains. — Christine Rigden
I love my life. I feel sometimes my enjoyment of it, stretching like a cat before the fire. It is mingled pain and pleasure – the icy waves cool a hot summer’s day; the warmth of a room on wintered face and hands. The hurting times and greyness give small joys their brilliance. Life is […]
The air is dense with ambiguities. Conversations advance, carefully, cautiously disinterested. Wary words are chosen. Questions hanging in between are carefully unspoken. Closeness is rationed, carefully other interests intertwined. Chance contacts are evaded. Margins unexpectedly diminished are carefully regained. Eye meets eye in recognition, hesitates – then moves along, seeking chaste neutrality; then stealing back […]
The land is grey and wan December hangs in barren branches, cries from castle walls. Frost-trodden, leaves are stilled unmoved by winter’s breath. But the solitary trees, in each clenched bud silently enact an Advent carol. — Christine Rigden