WHERE THE BIRDS ALWAYS SING
LYDIA M. SUMMERS
an ode to nature.
Soft and
Much like thoughts half-formed, Locking in memories than can’t be fully accessed,
Where two become one.
Rounded and bulbous, With each knot carrying a tale, Of struggles endured.
Even in hurt new life appearsInhabiting on the deformed & Starting anew.
No-one saw me but the trees
If I stay in the same place long enough, Nature will come and surround me, The graceful footsteps of deer fleeting.
Am I watching them?
Or are they watching me?
I wandered as lonely as a cloud
Lily pads glide quietly across the lake, Leaving small gaps where they don't cover, And in those spaces you can see reflections from above.
Sunlight dapples through the leaves, Where branches stretch, Dangling & dipping bewitchingly.
I stand still, bathing in the moment, yet the world keeps moving around me.
For a moment, I forget myself and simply exist with it.
Suddenly, I had to stop.
A deep wave of sadness washed over me,
As I looked down and saw -
A still form lying supine.
Ruffled feathers.
Wings tucked tight.
Curled toes.
A quiet contrast of life and death.
Although lifeless the fly still hum.
I wonder – is this what everlasting peace looks like?
Out here, alone, I’m just a body under trees
When we were strangers I watched from afar, much like a lone tree watching the seasons change.
From one single bud, an entire field blossoms.
Painting the earth and creating a landscape of grace.
As the butterfly flutters gently by, It comes to rest lightly on a leaf. An unflappable stillness that follows flight.
Feeling the presence of someone dear.
Each morning during the cold winter months, I woke up at the crack of dawn just so I could have you to myself.
I know that my world has grown old, and nothing is forever.
When the walls close in on me, My thoughts grow louder and louder, I step outside, solo, away from a crowd,
Where I am neighboured by trees, Which hold me softly,
The breeze of wind brushes past,
Murmuring in my ears that…
… I do belong.
I fear of what’s to come...
... I, and the forest hold our breath,
As we wonder — what will come next?
Will the birds always sing?
‘Where The Birds Always Sing’
Lydia M. Summers
1/1 Artist book
Handbound by artist
2025
Dorset
