Arched BaCK

The sunlight filters through the arch of bare branches, and I worship their knotted and gnarled beings.  They are the lucky ones, the ones not to have tumbled in the storms.  A blanket of moss moulds itself under my favoured feet, as surely, they are privileged to be able to walk in this dell, the flavour and the scent of pine crisply pointing out a cluster of ever greens.  A goldfinch whistles then trills high above me, his call to friends echoing far off, lingering around the shivering leaves of a rhododendron.

Winter is fading, slowly, icy fingers tapping knowledgably.  Is winter knowledgeable?  Does it have insight into when and where it goes?  I don’t suppose it does, but for now, in my head, winter is shaking a finger, saying, don’t throw off your padded jackets, your hats and scarves just yet.  I am not done with you.  The trees grumble and creak, their roots gripping in for dear life.  It’s during these wanderings I see a tree with a red cross on it.  Is this an old tree, diseased tree, dodgy unstable tree?  Is this tree for the chop?  It’s a process known only to the landowner, forester and logger.  If I pay attention, however, while out and about, I may discover which colours mean what to this particular landowner.  One day I’ll pass and this red painted tree will be gone. 

I move on from the archway of trees, the tangled, broken and strewn branches littering the ground and I come upon the church.  A truncated square plan Rogue Gothic Church built in the late 1800’s, short columns, tall pointed arches, a tower, rugged stones.  At the front of the church there are two high archways, within which there is an outside space, perhaps to shelter in the rain, somewhat like the external arched corridors found in ancient university buildings.  Above the arched area there are three Celtic designed windows and above those are large arched stained-glass windows and then another array of Celtic designs.  Its power is notable. It’s a fairy tale church, setting my mind to flutter.    

I see an apparition under the arches.  A beautiful bride, alone, looking miserable, on this, her wedding day, her pure white dress covered in lace, revealing a slender waist, her veil not quite hiding her nose.  Is she jilted?  She looks lost within the thick columns, the solid stonework, the bricks.  Her nose is red with the cold.  It is still winter, winter told us.  Don’t be fooled by the sun.  Is she in her right mind, getting married in winter?  Perhaps that’s it.  The girl isn’t in her right mind.  Is it the spot demoralising her chin?  A spot on a maiden, not plagued by spots.  Nerves must have pushed this one to the surface, postulating tension. Love, honour and obeyance is no light task.  The vision in white fades into the cracks and pores of the bricks, chased by a fan of dog’s breath.        

Heel, I hear someone shout, and a woman and her dog approach.  It’s a collie.  A beautiful black dog with a white breast, and intelligent eyes.  It knows to obey, but it does so in its own time, after circling a hedge once or twice, then sniffing the dampened leaves.  I say hello to the woman and then with a little more emphasis on the o ending, I say hellooo to the dog.  I often greet dogs.  Dogs that deserve to be greeted of course.  Not all do.  Like wise with humans.  Talk about arched?  The arched backs, of some you come across is laughable.  Is it, IS laughable, or ARE laughable?  IS laughable looks ok, doesn’t it?     

The church is on the main road into the town and I turn up the hill over the bridge crossing the river.  I look over the parapet.  This is a frequent occurrence for me.  I like to see the river from this vantage point.  That I can see into the gardens of some of the dwellings below is neither here nor there.  I am not a nosy person.  Is that a wood burning stove, and a wood pile?  That’s new since I was last down this way.  Their fence looks a bit worse for wear.  Another casualty of the storms.  Is this another brewing?  My hair is whipping my face, my unzipped jacket acting like arched wings.  I take-off, fly home.