Living in the Welsh Valleys is mostly like living under a wet, grey, blanket - even if you think you know the cold - you have to experience the kind of wet, damp chill that gets into the very marrow of your bones - and then some!
I seem to be going through a pivotal time in my mid-life.
I don't mind - we have a kind of shedding every seven or so years - and I can trace every one back - beginnings, endings...
but this feels stalled - it's a waiting - for what, I have no idea, I just know that I have to prepare and be ready...it feels BIG - the thing that is waiting for me - or that I am waiting for,
it sends the butterflies into a frenzy - and I will admit - I get a little frightened. (can you be a little frightened?) OK so I'll own up and say that I get scared.
I fend off this fear with making.
Whatever my soul needs for it's expression -
Sometimes it's poetry.
Inspired by a lifting fog over the Rhigos Mountain Road- my soul's eyes saw this:
This morning, the sun,
a silver disc behind the mist
resembles the moon -
and Rhigos rises
from her sauna pool
with snow draped like muslin
across her bony chest;
her sisters peak through
sheer curtains of forget-me-not blue
waiting their turn.
The sun waking, stirs gold in to the cold,
throwing copper shadows
across the steep mountain road
which winds down into the Valley
where he'll wait for me -
'till I grow old.