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Haibun for a museum

Perhaps it was the migraine, but our visit to the newly refurbished natural history museum in Bordeaux left me with a sense of a missed opportunity. Everything was dead, looked dead, and so many of the exhibits are of species that have since disappeared into extinction, though no mention seemed to be made of that detail. I’ll probably write more about it when I get my wits back.

 

The natural history museum has had a make-over, ten years of make-over, but it is still no more than a collection of dead birds and animals, bones and fossils. Extinct birds stand next to rabbits, pythons swallow endangered toads, and the same unrecognisable brown, sausage-shaped creatures, their fur dulled in death, grimace through the glass in utter silence. Children marvel at the polar bear, ask to touch its cuddly, acrylic whiteness.

In the misty morning

a heron lifts from the pond

a family of deer

raise their heads

to watch the swallows gathering.

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Not Mine

Thank you, Liz for the beautiful illustrations 🙂

Exploring Colour

This light, this life   — ‘cascade’ poem by Jane Dougherty.
Blog:   Jane Dougherty Writes
Mixed media art by Jodi McKinney.
Nature photos by Nigel and Liz.


The words are from the original post at:  This light, this life

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This light, this life

—  poem by Jane Dougherty

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This light that shines is not for me to keep,

Nor is the rain that falls, the running stream,

I hear imprisoned voices in the night.

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No bird is mine to pluck down from its flight,

I have no right to bend life to my scheme,

This light that shines is not for me to keep.

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The wind that blows in from the ocean deep,

Blows free and wild not chained in fetters bright,

Nor is the rain that falls, the running stream.

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All this I know, yet often in my sleep,

The wind, the stream, weave through my…

View original post 249 more words

This light, this life

 

This light that shines is not for me to keep,

Nor is the rain that falls, the running stream,

I hear imprisoned voices in the night.

 

No bird is mine to pluck down from its flight,

I have no right to bend life to my scheme,

This light that shines is not for me to keep.

 

The wind that blows in from the ocean deep,

Blows free and wild not chained in fetters bright,

Nor is the rain that falls, the running stream.

 

All this I know, yet often in my sleep,

The wind, the stream, weave through my restless dream,

I hear imprisoned voices in the night.

None so blind

 

The truth is there

in the morning dew, the evening mist,

in the careful tread of the deer

in the curled bud of a rose.

The truth is in beseeching hands,

reaching from the waves.

The children with death in their eyes tell it best,

and the mighty forest, no more than a raw scar.

The truth is in the melting icecaps,

the cows that never walk on grass,

the children forced to take up arms

and kill parents and siblings.

The truth points its finger at us

every minute of every day,

its dance macabre darkening the noonday sun,

empty  ribs casting shadows on the sand,

on the pavements, on our faces,

but we are what we are—

none so blind as those who will not see.

Haibun for an August evening

 

Suppertime, eating on the porch, we watch deer graze beneath the trees, our trees, growing on land in our care, like the deer, mother, father, two young ones, the colour of autumn leaves. Father stands guard, mother chooses the grazing. What human family can compare in grace and beauty?

This place

on the edge of someone’s map

a non-event

on the tourist circuit

is all the world to me