Clouds whisper thoughts
And leaves whisper dreams
On the edges
The lip of water meets the limit of sky
And all we have ever imagined
A cloud of leaves and trees
Lifting us blossom-like
into a new perspective.
High on the Northumbrian coast sits this abandoned Medieval castle, its stone crumbling slowly back into the earth from which it was pulled. Built by the Kings cousin, one of the wealthiest men in the country, it was never inhabited by him. He was instead beheaded by the King, and all his lands and properties including this brand new giant of a castle were seized. It looks out mournfully through hollow empty windows across this now quiet, undisputed corner of England.
The name Dunstanburgh, hints at the long history of this site, perched high on this dramatic cliff top. The Fort of the Rocks, has been used and abandoned several times over the last 2,000 years, and clues have been uncovered from the soil of prehistoric pottery, Iron Age millstones and hearths from 100 BC and 200 AD. Even the Romans reused this site, leaving behind shards of pottery and a brooch, but they too moved on and abandoned it to nature and the elemental forces. Now the fields around the castle are filled with sheep and cows, quietly grazing, unaware of the layers of abandoned history and politics lying just below their hooves. Dreams were made and broken here, all returned to dust and the peace of earth.
From deep in the cold dark earth, soft petal blades stir, cutting their path through the skin of soil. Soft as silk and sharp as thorns their colour lights the dark somber beds of late winter. Called into the light by the spring turn of the planet, they appear, dappled in moon dew, glistening in sun drops. Day and night they rise, a crop of purple spring blades, towering towards the clouds of life. The rushing wave of spring has begun, an unseen army gathering strength hidden in darkness.
Or perhaps you know the tale
Of the white horned deer
Who steals the sun away each night
In the branches of her horns?
Hunted by the hounds of day
Who pull her back to earth
They place her shining in the sky
And herald her rebirth.
Created in response to the DP writing challenge object
We stood on the edge of the land, with the Lammermuir Hills shimmering in a heat haze through the flames. The fire rose and sank, sometimes licking the sky itself, sometimes restlessly licking the bowl which held it. A cold still day was drawing its last breath, and the crows were returning wearily to the trees with their tales and visions. The bright flickering light drew us here to this spot, as fire has always done across the acres and mountains of time.
We came carrying the burdens of the year, and tended the flames, which yielded creatures of light and heat and smoke. Shapes and visions rose and fell within the bowl of fire, revealing tiny drops of wisdom, as the dead wood released the sunlight it had captured so long ago. Light which had poured from the sun long before any of us drew a breath, now warmed our skins, creating something new before our tired and thirsty eyes.
From the ashes new life rose, hungry for air and space to move. The crackling wood released salamanders and creatures of the flame, and they danced for our pleasure. All were transformed at the edge of the cauldron of fire, on the edge of the green hills, at the very edge of winter, by the flames of Bride.
See more stories in three takes at this weeks DP Challenge
Between the tangled limbs of old trees
Far down the known familiar path
We stumbled through shadows
And fell into light
Pulled on by the spirits
Dark pools of delight.
The shadows we saw
Reflected our faces
With tooth nail and claw
Our animal races
The gods of old let lose their wild tales
And above and below become one.