followed by a 5 km trek.
An early morning rise, with the warm, velvet liquid of my tea going slowly and longingly down my throat. My eyes are closed to savour each welcome mouthful.
I open my eyes and see my scraggly spruce having, what appears to be, a venomous, aggressive debate. There is much pointing of fingers and threatening swaying back and forth, perhaps they are severely disgruntled with their unkempt appearance. This continued for most of the day. I trusted that they would end it peacefully.
Today they seem to be more settled and are standing tall and rooted. They seem to know their importance. I like that about trees, they have a strong sense of self.
Gerald Squires wrote the following about trees.
by Gerald Squires
His paintings bring our barren, rustic landscape …….to, to….just what they are…it’s as if you are seeing the real thing. His notes and writings which are found in Gerald Squires by Stan Dragland, were to me an unexpected find. This is a book that really should be bought and read.
……and the spiders were somewhat disgruntled with me for always brushing their webs from my clothesline. I awoke to find that they had been busy overnight hanging their own line.
by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Web in Red
The Spider and The Fly
by Mary Howitt (1799-1888)
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”
“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”
Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”
“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:
Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
I had never read this in its entirety before. A gem of a fable!
Dogberries, birdhouses and gnomes enjoying the soft fog and mist.
L. Fudge photos
Walking gives freedom. When you walk you can determine your own tempo. You can choose your own course. You can think whatever you want. Nina Kuscik
A beautiful fall day along the Wild Bight Road.
The times they are a’changin.
While I don’t see Bob Dylan in this setting, his words ring true.
Peaceful and serene.
The little red tractor….sure miss stopping and talking to Gerald Head.
Dogberries are so plentiful this year….and so beautiful as they add their splash of colour to the landscape.
Thankfully there is no change here, the colours are vibrant.
A lazy Sunday in the fields.
October’s Party by George Cooper
October gave a party
The leaves by hundreds came-
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.
Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly “hands around.”
October dressing for her pool party.
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds,thy wide grey skies!
The mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
All all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Source: A short tale over a long trek.
My father did not live excessively. He did not understand waste…throwing things away, not eating the food on your plate, overspending…..I believe it actually hurt him to see any of this happening. He was also not a man who talked simply for the sake of talking. Perhaps this is why I vividly remember the day he showed me the bluebells growing on the cliff by our wharf. He liked ( I was going to write ‘was amazed by’, but that would have been too excessive) the way they grew there in little or no soil, and thrived against the elements. He liked their tenacity and determination.
While hiking I have seen many bluebells and always stop and admire them. I, too, marvel at where and how they grow. I love their colour, their shape, and their tenacity.
Keels, Newfoundland 2017
A Bluebell for Dad
Hope is the periwinkle softness
nestled in the craggy cliff,
rising from the salty beach rock
growing and blooming against all odds.
It is the tiny sturdy stem
bending, but not breaking
in the ferocious gale.
It is the cheeky bell shaped flower
that asks nothing of me,
yet brings such joy and pleasure
if I just fix my gaze upon it.
Carol (White) Fudge
My mother was born in Traytown and I loved spending my summer holidays there. Traytown and the Eastport Peninsula is another beautiful area of our province. The Beaches Arts & Heritage Centre has become another favourite place of mine. Their many shows, events, artists’ displays and craft sales bring me back every year.
Winning 1st place in the Literary Competition at the Centre was insignificant in the literary world, but I’ll take it, be thankful, hold on and perhaps be a little cheeky.:)