I make my way through the heavily cushioned country alley with its pillows of dense wild carrot and the now sparsely decorated foxgloves. Just a few faded cerise blooms remain, gone from bell to trumpet as they stretch their last. Pushing my way through not only the growth but the heat which sits about the earth like treacle, causing inland waves that distort the view adding to the heady summer veil.
I crouch to enter a clearing that is anything but clear. Thorns and hazel grow low and lush guarding this quiet place with their spiky soldiers and distracting green bellied fruits. Two large granite boulders lay abandoned in the centre, a consequence of waring giants from the coastline ten miles away. Just behind the rocks a sacred well resides, naturally carved into the earth. Known as a holy well so I was told by the rotting plaque I passed to get here. I am reluctant to call it that though as there is nothing 'holy' about it. There is no fragility to be found here, just a deep mouth that questions your trust with its tiny treacherous steps. In its gape the filtered sunlight illuminates water that never seems to drop, instead it stays suspended like a broken string of pearls on the moss covered rocks. The coolness of it makes my throat ache for water on a day where the sun beats so fiercely on my back. A phosphorous lichen glows in the deepest part of the well, a sure sign that magic still resides here and that my thirst is likely too human for this forgotten place. I begin to wonder that if I stare too long I too may get lost to the time that only seems to exist here.
A circle of cloudless blue is the solitary break in this English canopy and I follow its light to a form sat on top the boulder. My gaze reveals a prehistoric beast made of bent legs, slightly smirking lips and a million earthy mosaics. Her stillness is enchanting but a fast energy surrounds her. Laid out like a question mark amongst the liverworts and ferns that have somehow grown on stone, but she asks no questions, her eyes have seen it all. She is gravid with this years young and I question their chance of survival but it feels safe for them here in a place where wisdom is almost a living entity, I expect it to slip from within the trees at any moment.
I am distracted by a buzzard, the only one brave enough to circle the sun. His pin like appearance becoming a vortex in the blue sphere above. His call pierces the air, a sound much larger than his distant size. I look back at the lizard but she has gone, seemingly swallowed by the rock. Another secret briefly revealed under natures own stipulation.
Author - Lucy
A painter & needle sculptor creating creatures with a tale to tell and a song in their heart.