A Sprintime Story of Grandeur and Glory

Daisies arrive on the patio, completely unexpected.

Between marble columns,
burnt orange daisies secure a
 hot spot in the siesta mid-day sun,
to bask in the warmth of its healing
 rays - a spritz of springtime therapy
 after withering away from winter's malaise.

A bubble of almond blossoms

bursts on to the scene, waking

 olive trees and buttercups bored
 with the usual. It shocks the serene by
splashing some rosy white on the green, 
  and suddenly, the meadow looks awesome!

From rooftop ruins, lemony daisies sprout
between wide cracks in the sandy stone,
cheery, open - air dwellers of a centuries
  old home, which shows no traces of its 
'once upon a time' life. A structural array
  of climatic strife, this abode, a tragic 
example of 'open concept' design, is, 
alas, a model of rubble in rocky decline.

 On ground level, a red poppy stands 

alone, in a field of cliquey colour.

Crepe paper frail, its silky petals

shiver in the cool, March breeze -

surely, an SOS of a flower in distress,
in dire need, of some TLC, from its own,
 faraway, siren hued sisters. I wonder,
will they heed its weak and woeful
 whisper, before it wilts and shrivels?

 Close by, predatory branches claw their way 

towards an unsuspecting, naive bell. Can't

they tell that this metal's heavily guarded?
Why don't they back away, before it starts
to sway, and alert all those around it?

Echium plantagineum in purple, and more

daisies, this batch in butter and cream, 
spice some life on the bones of a new build,

 and perk up a faded patina in peach.

 Yes, spring has arrived in the
Cretan countryside, bearing gifts
of bucolic grandeur and glory.
I am grateful for Mother Nature's 
generous offerings, and her 
miraculous, annual, dowry. 

 Happy Spring,

my friends!

Thanks for 
visiting!

xo

Poppy

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Covered in Crayola Colour

'Chapped and chippy' aquamarine and

'orange peel' tangerine, are what I
named these bright, bold hues; bet the
Pantone people would not be amused. 

  Covered in crayola colours,
this public school built in 1900,
is more reminiscent of a charming cottage
  than a place that houses ABCs and numbers! 

Stucco, stone, wood, and iron, the

 stars of this scholastic structure,
  together teach a lively lesson in
classical Cretan architecture.

A few villages over, a farmhouse,
 pebbled in earthy, faded tones,
 shows signs of having weathered
storms; no doubt, due to the 
soldiers set in stone, still
 standing at attention.

Meandering through mountainous terrain,

I eventually reached the northern coast, 
where sailboats, bobbing on bouncy waves,
 didn't stray too far from sandy shores.

Back among fruit filled trees,
branches blowing in the breeze,
bare vines, (the black sheep
 of this gnarly brood), being in
 a gloomy mood, refused to budge.
Alas,the sweet and juicy fare
 they bear, not there to dress
their lonely limbs, left the
pruned and prickly trunks, feeling
 desperately miserable and grim.

Thanks for visiting!

 

xo 

Poppy

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Poetry Pantry 

A Pastoral Prescription

 When life is hard,
harsh, or heavy,
  I walk to unlock
 the simplicity,

softness, and light,
that is blocked 
from my heart.

When my soul is bare,
my mind a flurry of worry,
I am moved by my body
towards the hills 
 that surround me,
to walk.

 The meadow is medicine,
and is taken visually,
to alleviate the pain
of an achy psyche. 

But the mountains 
seem bitter; still,
I stop for a dose
of their snowy splendour,
in which I'm engrossed.

No strange side effects found
 in this pastoral prescription,
apart from the fruit bearing trees,
whose beauty can lead to addiction.

Getting my fix
of floral and fauna,
 (a preventative measure
against emotional trauma),
I make my way back to
the place framed by boughs,
 as I move my body
 to the space
where it's housed.
And I walk...

 Thanks for visiting!
Happy weekend!

Wall to Wall Wisdom

Its doors were swung wide open, and firmly
 stuck in place, as if stoppers prevented them
 from closing - thus deliberately exposing - a stony,
  stuccoed presence, for ages, derelict and defaced.

But it didn't care. In fact, it stoically stood there,
passive to the plethora of invading greenery; a
 snub to the supposed shambles of its neglected scenery.

 It had nothing to hide, 
unlike, its scarlet shuttered neighbour,
on the opposite side, of the cracking, cobbled road.
 Oh, the heavy load of secrets it must have hoarded,
 stored and boarded, inside its padlock protected door.

No, it definitely identified more
with the punctured structure 
perched proudly on a peak, nearby.
Weak, from wind blown wounds,
it stood windowless and roofless, yet,
was crowned the most hospitable of homes,
  the perfect, permanent address;
 1st prize for picky pigeons seeking nests.

In second place, 
for its geometric brilliance,
and traces of richly, brush stroked hues,
was the abode boasting views of the Aegean,
 whose signature sea blues, once cruised
the surface of its original facade - now an 
open-air exhibit, of peeling patches of patina,
a cryptic, colour flawed collage.

 And so, when passing by this beauty, on my daily 
morning walks, I can't help but to wonder, what it would
  say if it could talk. Are those who inhabit its interiors, 
well loved and card for, like its outer girth, that is hugged 
by pretty blooms and rays of warmth and nourishing self-worth?

I often ponder such questions, of the deeply personal kind,  
 while wandering the pastures of the Cretan countryside. 
 

Once,
 while pausing to admire the stillness of the sea, I got
  wind of an answer, blowing in the breeze, when a sudden
gale snatched the gist of wisdom from the gusty vicinity, and
  it disappeared forever, zigzagging through the rows of olive trees. 

Oh, if only walls could talk.

Thanks for visiting!
Wishing you a warm 
and cozy weekend!