PETALS AND RAIN.

On Saturday, June 27, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Wet grey gusts through the sally willow, westerly off the bay. In a lush green high-hedged sanctuary garden, drenched and dripping drops scattering and pattering on a sea of large leaves.

Salty grey veils wash through dark dusted ivy overgrown on stone and driftwood, fluttering the fuchsia droplets under low cloud and the body of the buddleia blooms and bends with waves of wind.

The soft grey light makes the lush green vivid, cascading passionate petals scattered like summer snowflakes.

Under a canopy of wild wet willow, rustling and glistening, listening in the nautilus spiralled continuum of natural sound.

It’s all that lush green of water waves and blossom blustering June that washes and lifts a living heart for sure. Contemplating in the fertile side of solitude, and in creating, being one with all creation.

Gazing through double glazing and into a softly soaked serene green scene, in wonder at the devotion people put into their gardens, like lavishing lack-love on a surrogate substitute.

Imagine them all expanded beyond boundaries, and not just locking your love in the back yard, but simply assisting with mending and minding mother earth’s mantle.

And just by looking, when you love what lives, you can easily be blown away by abundance but don’t quote me.

For nascent noetic gnostics with half a pineal gland intact and uncalcified, petals and rain leave an ancient stain or touch a chord, like a westerly wind from the Atlantic, and rain-soaked flowers being a most reassuring sign of life.

Wind-blown pink petals apart, the grey and glazed green day still spattering and blustery, heaves into evening and more scowlish skies, grass grows greener, and leaves petals speckled with silvery pearls, and sounds like the sea not far away.

While it’s good to witness everything being washed in waves of whatever without worry of the wastage of one-ness, while touching the willow, with a clattering ‘pok pok’ of tangled wooden wind chimes in the rain.

If i seem to suggest we are all a bit like flowers in the rain, you could imagine that any way you like, depending on your internal weather, or really know the two go together and each is the other.

It’s about being the eye that sees with a twenty-four hour attention span and not just glancing off, not just listening literally, oblivious to the presence of poetry.

 

Just looking and thinking apart, art is the eye of the heart. Where there’s an eye for an i, there’s a truth for a truth and it’s already in your face, but for a brief delay in getting out of your way.

The map is not the living land itself whichever way you google it, and there’s more to what you think you see than what you think.

The living land has expressions of moods and modes, way above and beyond the houses, back yards, and wild coastlines in the night, with a late light and a lulling in the waves of wind and a faint clock’s tick.

Content to sit long and leisurely on a bare wooden chair, periodically picking up a pencil, just listening in the singing silence, at ease leaning on an elbow, absent all agenda or haste.

Quietly contemplating canvases,

whatever forms or falls in mind,

sound of soft night wind. ~

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker