THE LIMEYARDS....
A writing project at National Trust’s Calke Abbey in south
Derbyshire….we are preparing a book of collected stories from different
participants but for now, here are some of my pieces from the project…photos
added as well….
....
BLACKWATER....
Water lilies uncurl in the
cold depths,....
Rising handkerchiefs
unfolding.....
A small fish, jumping, breaks
the mirror, ....
And a mandarin drake and his
gaudy reflection....
Ripple a clockwork course
across the pool.....
A coot shouts in a sudden,
brief, alarm.....
Then Blackwater, like me,
settles back into silence, drawing reflections....
Of the sailing clouds into
stillness,....
A mirror pool waiting to....
Receive the Moon, ....
Waiting for the nights when ....
The trees come down to drink....
....
Snippets....
Bells
and enchantment both wither in the glass....
But
under the trees,
the blue-scent is as strong as smoke....
....
....
....
Crow
moves, opening eyes,....
Deer
moves, a shadow shifting, ....
I
move, the world erupts into flight,....
I
breathe myself into stillness and peace returns....
The
Satyr’s stories:....
For
me, the Limeyards felt full of presence and they felt to be a place where the woodlands
would wake and dance. The heart of that sense of movement lay in a Satyr,
hooves, horn and shadow slipping through the trees, a secret watcher…......
....
Beginning
“I was born out of the need of old
stone and tree roots for a voice.....
....
I began as an idea, shaped by water
running through stone in deep caves, gathering a body for myself out of long
lost bones, out of stranded horns and hooves and left-over memories. My flesh
is earth, my skin grass and bark, my blood the mineral rich, crystal-growing
streams of limestone darkness....
....
Now I am here, playing the music of the
wind, listening to bluebells ring, and the slow singing of carp in the cold
pools. I am the watcher in the woods, the touch of the breeze, the rustle in
the undergrowth. I am the shadow that slips away.....
Always here. Never seen.”....
Gordon MacLellan ....
....
The
Calling Song....
With the fire of foxes, come....
With the endurance of limestone,
come....
With the persistence of tree
roots, come....
With the passion of orchids,
come....
With the excitement of children,
come....
....
And where the cliff....
Crumbles into the grass;....
Past Gilbert’s stone....
And Sir Henry’s Yards;....
Past Engine and Portobello and....
Sad Molly Wootton’s Hole;....
Beyond Perch Pit and....
Over the Limeyards Flats....
....
By the cold, carp depths ....
Of Blackwater....
We’ll watch the moon rise over
Margaret’s Close....
and gather the woodland on the
dancing lawns at ....
Ridings Nook....
....
Gordon MacLellan....
....
....
....