I love the thriving mosses,
And all the fallen leaves.
I love the fruiting mushrooms,
And all the stubborn weeds.
I love the hardy Ivy,
And Brambles routing deep.
I love the little toad road,
The branches on the heap.
I love the lush Lavender
And how it blocks the way.
I love the tree that buds late,
And the Bluebells every May.
I love the Trailing Willow,
The Rosemary, Chives, and Sage.
I love the Creeping Thistles
At every single stage.
I love to see my garden
In wilder shades of green.
I know some can’t quite see it
But
It’s beautifully pristine.
-Essie Parker Walsh
Tag: nature
Little Bird.
At the darkest time of the year
What joy to find you perching here
Upon the bare and sleeping oak
A merry song, a shim’ring cloak
To warm me in the harsh steel-grey
Of winter’s night and winter’s day
I’ll go with lighter step and mind
And leave my heaviness behind.
What a pleasure to hear your song
Up in the trees all winter long
-Essie Parker Walsh
The Price Of Detachment.
The way is thick with a silvery haze,
And rich with winter’s fruit.
A fleece of moss hugs tight
The feet of our elders,
Who stand regal in crownless slumber.
A single loyal Robin on his guard.
An affection of rain
Kisses gently every exposed feature,
Promising new life.
Steady is the rhythm
Of this still breathing wood,
It moves with intention.
Not a thing is wasted,
Even decay is nectar.
Hours bead like water
On Wild Garlic shoots,
They pool about the stems,
And the day draws itself out before me.
The estranged march past it,
Severed and unseeing.
Time to them is but a number
That slips away.
They take no notice of the symphony
Of the gentle wild
That inspires me.
That devours me.
That devastates me.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Down The Unseen Roads.
Down the unseen roads I run,
When blushing sky and setting sun,
From under wave to The Land Undone,
Where long the iron bells have rung.
Down the unseen roads I run.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Away.
I awake this morning,
Far into spring,
To see that in
The softest light of day,
You have danced
Without worry
Upon the creeping mosses of my garden.
Danced,
As some Good Folk do,
Leaving the gentle wild in your wake.
The dandelions about my feet
Hold tenderly this golden hour.
Each of them a wonder
All its own.
How my home
Does now glitter with it.
I stare into their brilliance
And see upon the rays
A gentle hope.
Without worry.
They whisper in sunlight
And it is dazzling.
They sing to me stories
Of so fantastic a place,
That I,
Enraptured,
Can do naught but willingly go.
– Essie Parker Walsh
April Showers.
Spring celebrates itself each April,
And each April,
I amble through this spectacle of new life in awe of it’s daring.
A cool wind blows the delicate pink blossoms from the trees.
It carries on the breeze,
And skips down the road.
From the bridge it rains down into the river,
And dances atop the surface of a new world.
The gentle chaos of spring seeps into my skin
And I could weep at my own strength in this moment.
– Essie Parker Walsh
A Promise Always Kept.
The sun was today a god of old
Painted in light and singing of good harvest.
He tore across the sky in his chariot,
The end of winter grasping at the harmony of his rays.
A pursuit eternal.
Winter falls behind today,
And so I shall join the chorus.
– Essie Parker Walsh
The Autumn Chorus.
Undress yourself.
Shed your millions
About mine.
Let your melody
Of red and gold
Fall gracefully
From your embrace.
I’ll sing your song
As we step together
For one final dance.
Now repose,
And paint yourself eternal.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Wheata Woods.
The harmony of your gentle chaos pulls me in like a siren song
To put to death the curdled notion of my worth.
– Essie Parker Walsh
The Reality Of Me.
I ache to be lost in the serenity
Of late summer.
When everything is coming to rest,
But that one final bloom
Upon the peaks of Derbyshire.
A moment in time
As fleeting as the hope I have
That today will be the day
I meet you on the hill.
And of corse,
Before I dry my hair,
The reality of me
Fractures my mind.
The smile on my face
Cracks
Then breaks
From the weight of unattainable joy.
My morning shatters about my feet,
And I follow.
I cannot meet you on the hill.
Not today.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Essie P.W 