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  • Writer's pictureE Porritt Carrington

Stories from the Field

Four moons in the meadow, watercolor on paper

A Corona of May, a poem written of changes upon the days of Spring 2020

Light -shine skirts around the edges of the canopy

A starburst of rainbow rays

through the Kaleidoscopic leaves. I am now in shadow and in light, flickers of white light on my hand and arm are drawn over by dark leaf shapes as the breeze comes up. Cooling, it is. Today it is clear, things will change irrevocably from here. A point of dissolution and disconnection is reached with what was already broken. The river has lent herself to me a while. Sitting alongside her the birdsong has lulled me into her flow I listen keenly. After a while, I am whispering

“ Oh“. These last three days of May in which, I never before have seen such a corona of flowers upon a month change has felt far-reaching into real. As if I could touch it on the nose. I have circled around the uncertainties and danced around the words of uncertainties. Words of plague, news of suffering and constraint It sent me out firstly

to the ferny glen. A high May viridian green the soil warming and the earthy bracken smell reached up to me as I tread. I crossed a stream twice, no, three times to find a place far from the trail quiet enough for listening. I leaned into the greening woods, and whispered,

“ is it so? “ The second day I went to watch the swallows in the evening’s light. They come and go from their

near a hundred nests beneath the girders of a giant grey bridge in the city. They swoop and dive speedily, easily spinning figures of eight in acuity skimming the rippling river surface. Feeding, watering, building, readying in May their community of adobe homes is like a clay

sculpture against the steel structure above the eddying Tah-kie-oosteh Nature never does betray my trust in her, for the salve for a tender heart.

I whispered to them then as they swooped low

“How? “ Out there In wild places, In here, in my wilding heart, there is change and recovery change and destruction change and peacefulness change and regrowth change and heartbreak

again and change and re-source

surrendering and fighting and then somewhere between each one love.

Intelligent love. Creativity in the crucible of fire, creativity in the scent of fresh springs welled in mountains streaming to city Waters collected in a great artery. to circle again. Creativity in the air, the warm breeze that sounds more like waves then leaves it breathes through these very maple trees. At the water's edge It looks clean, There is a muddy riverbed that I know runs deep with murk where life has sunk transforming into clay and into the earth The sun in the water casts a light amber glow now. Old trees at the bottom are magnified as white bones and a pale green shimmering meets the gold and then there are minnows flashing On the third day A small bird like a tiny oystercatcher pecks at a mayfly with a broken wing hobbling along, just by my sandaled feet I whisper to them,

“Yes, I see”.

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