As I begin to practise my Haibun creation I spent a couple of hours at the nearby sacred water source, Woodwell. After a cold, frosty shoot I penned a few words sat on the bench nearby.
Ice locks down the surface here. Reflections warp and twist, rendering the canopy as a contorted canvas upon which sit frosted fronds. Trapped in a cold ephemeral embrace, green chloroplasts straining against the swell of ice burst, water plants hold steady, waiting for a thaw, and a release.
In the shadow of the Yew cliff the well runs free, dripping into the trough, sheltered from the worst of the night’s plunge into winter by the breath of the trees that overhang. Bird song is muted… Jay call, Robin serenade, nothing else right now. The wind too has failed, stillness prevails.
These momentary leaf patterns linger, suspended above the black mud bottom, mirroring the frieze of early winter.
Frosted fern and moss
temper hard rock faces which
watch watery realms.