Tag Archives: windmill

I see you…

I see youtree

Tree from the old days

Guarding the byways

You see me

You tree from the old days

Watching my hair grey.

 

I see you

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Road from the old days

Making the highways

You see me

You road from the old days

Feeling my gait sway.

 

I see youstone

StoneĀ from the old days

Marking the old ways

You see me

You stone from the old days

Hiding my shade away.

 

This post is about looking. The gaze. Eyes. The eyes within the mind.

The idea that, as we look, so we are being looked at.

We rush through our lives, ascribing varying amounts of import to the concerns that are whooshing though our grey matter at that moment in time.

I live in an old place. The Romans were here; they buried their dead below the windmill a quarter of a mile away. They built the road less than a mile from me. This road was called Dere Street, running from York up to Scotland. It was built in the 70s AD, after Boudicca was savagely dealt with.

It’s humbling to know that history marches through the lanes and streets that I wander. Lives will have been made, lost, broken, saved and joined right where I stand, looking at the undulating road surface.

Trees watching me, each breath they take a month in the inhale, seasonal exhalations. What concerns the mind of a tree? Do they notice the scurrying people, flashing by in their rushed lives? Or is each week long eye blink of an oak too ponderous and serene to even notice the day I walked by, lost in grief, or the day I strode by, found in love?

And yet, even the Romans were new to here.

This road, this march, this ribbon of trodden earth has the age of an eon. Ten thousand years. For ten thousand years people have followed the line of the lane, Sneck Yates and the high drove road to the right, skimming the curves of the river Ure. (This river, once called Jor or Yore has gifted (in my opinion), the once capitol of Viking England- Jor-wick. The town on the Jor.)

Marking the way, the old folk left stones. Up on the tops, there’s a long barrow I visit, where rests someone from then. I sit and look out, overdown on this place I call home.

On the route, the Devils Arrows pierce the earth; standing proud, so tall that they hide my shadow when I stand under them. A short walk takes me to Thornborough. The henge there is special. Three henges, linked.

The number 3 is sacred to the people we call Celts. It represents the three-fold marriage of earth, sea and sky. The trinity, so central to Christianity, was taken by St Patrick from the Celts, appropriated as a marriage between the old lore and the new. We keep them still.

On the count of three.

Three is the magic number.

Weave a circle round him thrice.

The stones watch, their inhalations so slow that they barely register the sapling as it grows into a half centuried oak. Do the stones remember the forming? The heat and the flowing?

The worries of a stone are nothing to the earth; the worries of the tree are nothing to the stone; the worries of the man are nothing to the tree. Next time you look; look through the eyes of something older. There may be wisdom. There will certainly be a different perspective.

The road marches on. The river washes stone. Time to look anew.

 

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From the morning…

One misty, moisty, morning, When cloudy was the weather, There I met an old man All clothed in leather All clothed in leather, With a cap under his chin. How do you do? And how do you do? And how do you do again?
One misty, moisty, morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
There I met an old man
All clothed in leather
All clothed in leather,
With a cap under his chin.
How do you do?
And how do you do?
And how do you do again?

I have started using the morning as a time to go and find something new.

Light the fire, kettle on and this gives me a rough sense of time to focus upon.

The kettle will simmer away happily but will will take at least fifteen minutes to boil.

So this gives me a certain amount of freedom, with a constraint, guided by my thirst.

I walk the lanes, looking for something. It could be a branch that will go on the fire; it could be a handful of berries, some rosehips; a pretty stone; or a photograph. It could be an idea for a song or a poem or artefact.

This morning was misty and ever so still. I turned right out of the door and headed for the lanes.

The air was light and the light was thick. My breath invisible, just like the end of the lane, hiden by the sepia fog.

I decided to go and say hello to the old windmill. Then I walked on, looking at the flowers in the verge, hearing little birds flitting and foraging for breakfast.

I found this scene to photograph, then I went home and the kettle was bubbling away, ready for a cup of tea. As I was uploading the photo, I searched for poems about mist and I discovered the old nursery rhyme above. So that was two new things this morning and a clear head.

What have you discovered recently? I’d love to talk about it with you. The kettle is always simmering on the fire for a cup of tea.