Third November Blog.
Dark, drab days,
Wind in my face,
Oh, Northern climes,
Leaves whirling down
From fast barren branches,
Cast a yellow carpet
On brown bare earth.i
Where colour once bloomed,
And sunlight bore witness,
Grey is my hue now,
Colours have vanished,
Gone now from my view.
Winter is nigh,
And days are short,
Bitter cold beckons,
Rain comes more often,
Puddles gleam with lamplight
On paved roads of town.
Bright sparks of neon
That glitter within,
Reflected in pools
A black night.
Count the days,
How long to holidays,
When it is over,
Leaning to springtime,
To lightness once more.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. November, 2015.
The picture above is new, maybe not completely finished. Having problems seeing details. But it is a trial of different shapes, colours, all new to me.
Buried Treasure. (A tale of the coast)
A battling wind blew off the North Sea, heading inland, carrying with it, a cold rain that spattered across the barren drifts of grassy sand dunes and up over the dotted shacks that littered that part of the eastern coast.
It brought to mind books, like ‘David Copperfield’ by Charles Dickens, where he visits the upturned boat on the shore, made into a home. A wintery barren shore, blasted by Nature’s torrents.
Mary drew her coat tighter, cinching the belt a notch more to keep out the seeking strands of chill wind. Though she was well wrapped up, this had always been a cold coast. Even in sumner, the wind whipped along the beaches, picking up grains of sand from one part of shore, depositing it further along the coast, at its whim.
Yet she liked that. Enduring the chill was what she grew up with, that and the continual pitting of sand on the face. Summer visitors complained. Though they were at ease with the loneliness, the wildness of the area, and ended up erecting windbreaks for some kind of surcease.
Clouds tumbled across the leaden skies. A moving picture, constantly changing shape and colour. So many greys, bank upon bank, like some strange castle aloft, with turrets and walls and crenelations. Mary pondered on the shapes, thinking how many ghosts stood at these ramparts? Of sailors, shipwrecked of old. Of soldiers taken to war, only to be sunk without reaching their goals? She was in a melancholy mood, or was it the dullness of the day, the drawing slick grey ocean that took no prisoners?
Gulls, flying aloft, called their mourneful cries, adding to her mood.
As Mary walked along, her feet kicked the sludgy sand which scattered in front of her, all dank and wet from the receding tide. Reaching the far end of the cove, she found the wind had picked up some. There was an icy bite to it now.
A shiver ran though her and turning, she headed towards the rickety old wooden steps that led to the top of the cliff at this end.
But as she neared the paint-peeled first rung, something in the sand caught her eye. Though there was no sunshine, the object glittered.
Mary stooped, trying to discern what the item was. Metal, for sure. The sand almost covered it. She brushed the softer loose stuff away, then fell backwards.
Scrabbling to get further away from the step. Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to hold down the bile that rose. It looked like an engagement ring, but it was attached to an almost totally buried hand that was grey, wrinkled and fetid.
Well, me hearties, that is it for this time. Keep warm and dry, keep safe and spry.