These following creations , are a result of the Covid lockdown. Charnwood Grove organised and ran a number of creative writing sessions via zoom, and these are some of the magnificent results.
All work remains the property of the original author. Charnwood Grove claims no rights.
The Awen is birdsong
in a deep cutting
where in the stillness
the dark pools of water
are laced with branches
and hawthorn buds
which radiate green
and catch the light
The Awen is always around me
The Awen suffuses the air
The sound of a factory
humming and whirring
Of birds singing, everywhere.
Looking out at my garden.
Laid asleep for how long?
cold damp slumber
heavy air above
Damp wet cold pressing down.
Some warmth now, the cycle turns,
a stirring, my greenness begins,
a twitch in my root,
a reach down for nourishment,
a stretch up for light.
A connection with the green around me,
lots of others like me.
I’m grass,I’m a lawn
I’m the earths carpet.
Written after a walk
On a normal day, we are in clean clothes and look like city bankers
Today, we scramble in mud ditches and brooks
We lean across too far, skid
And stretch to get the sword hidden in the rotten tree
‘Years ago, this was our den,
This tree was in the dark side’ he says
I look into the shiny wet, the stone and brook, dappled, glorious
‘But we could never get into the dark.
We planned to clear the bramble one day’
There is regret, then silence, he remembers the sworn secret of the hidden, now blurted to the enemy
‘Why not clear the bramble now?’ I ask
‘No one’s allowed out, and we’re at secondary ‘
Hare and dog
Leapt and fell.
white and brown.
whooped with joy.
Ran and ran
for dear life….
From my eye, things hop.
The world bounces, a wing flutter at a time
Each crevice, the opening petal
Sings Food! Food! Food! To me
Cold howls around the air
Big things exist everywhere
Hiding just makes sense, but there’s not much time for fear
Where are the others? I see earth, tree, bush, leaf
Pulling twigs. We must all make a nest
Precious eggs. Guard them.
Feed the open mouths.
Don’t stop. Don’t rest
Hopping, the whole world hops
Up and down. It tips its head
And the flower petals open for me
Singing Food! Food! Food!
Standing in the circle
Somebody was singing,
Somebody sounded like birdsong
Perhaps they became the bird? Maybe a spirit?
I don’t know, all I know was that we were invited
To share in the pure white light, which unzipped was
Whizzing, zany, tearing like a toddler let free
I thought all that sacred would be so deep
But it was a song, a shout out, a great big yes
To the universe. Nothing to be afraid of.
Such beauty. All imminent, all present, all happening
Yesterday, today, now, tomorrow, somehow the whole lot
Tangled up. Filled with love, filled with tender joy.
Awen, awen, awen.
Year after year, there’s that moment.
The fire is burning, sometimes we have created the most beautiful space.
One year, I remember, a flower runway, all the blossom on the ground, under the trees with their bright buds.
Such beauty. And then, it’s time, to shed our outer layer, take off our clothes, and stand just as we are, ready to run and leap.
All the vulnerability that requires, so stand before your friends and companions, saying this is me, I am here, I am part of this natural world.
And the run, the feel of twigs underfoot, the slight fear – will I clear the flames – the happiness of the fact that this is happening once again. Who am I paired with now? Myself? My partner? A friend? Year on year, fact, this can change.
We change. Our bodies change. The weather changes.
The drumbeats fall, the ragged chant is held, but still we leap, and there is flame, and there are small green leaves and flowers and fellowship.
The simple stuff is there, just strip away the caution, the what-ifs, the consciousness of self.
I am woodland
My energies are restored
The warmth of the season awakens me
The collective rises
Blossom white and cream
Nourishing, buzzing and bird song
There is rebirth and luminescent greens
Fertile hormones invigorate
Celebrations as the elements combine
Rejuvenation this Beltane time.
Awen!!! ……….Breath of the Ancestors……Inspiration. Creativity.
The molten glass glowed orange and yellow, a perfect marriage of earth and fire, at the end of the blowpipe.
“Breath gently as you turn the pipe – not too hard.”
It was my first time blowing glass and, at first, my breathing was too light.
“Blow harder.”, said the instructor.
I ramped it up and blew hard. As air joined the elemental mix, the glowing mass suddenly came to life and a bubble emerged.
“Whoa! Not too hard! Stop now. Keep turning the pipe.”
A few drops of water, the final element; a gentle tap, and it was done.
As I blew that Christmas bauble for my grandson, a memory had come to me. When I was a child, my father, who had been trained to blow glass to make scientific instruments, had turned his skills to creating a set of Christmas-tree decorations. Only three now survived and I had passed them on to his three grandchildren.
As I blew, I realised that my breath was being trapped inside this fragile globe, just as my father’s breath must have been trapped. What I had passed on to my son and nieces was the breath of their ancestor, and now I was about to do the same.
The light guides me.
In the transient light of an Autumn afternoon, I sit, still and silent, watching the field below for the slightest movement.
The light guides me.
In the bright light of Summer, I sit high in the trees. In Winter, I sit on the lowest fence post. I am aware of the seasons as they pass, each with their own light to guide me.
The wind bears me.
In the warmth of a sunny day, I soar, wings spread wide, riding the wind as I circle on thermals. Spiralling, I see the world spread beneath me in all its glory.
I am Buzzard.
I was Beltane
When, once upon a time and all around,
The people sang
To rising spring
To sacred dawn.
I am Beltane.
I am a moment
of softness rising.
I am damp grass.
I am a breeze
Through the meadow
Warm, wet petals
Bless the air.
And I will always be.
Many thanks go to the membership of Charnwood Grove for allowing this content to be published.