I saw an Angel in the Sky

I SAW AN ANGEL IN THE SKY

I SAW AN ANGEL IN THE SKY

I did, I saw an angel in the sky,

She looked as one would imagine,

Floating past on high.

I sat very still and hoped that she would stay,

But a sudden breeze gently blew her away.

I did see an angel in the sky

Because I am me, and I am allowed

To make what I will out of a passing cloud.

Jill Bernhardi

Cloudwatcher

Twin Ghost Gums near Alice Springs, Australia

 

Jill's Book

"The Village Awakes" by Jill Bernhardi is about villages in England, Scotland, Spain and Australia and some of the remarkable people we have met on our travels.  It tells of a village way of life which is gradually disappearing.

The Village Awakes by Jill Bernhardi

Ayers Rock

Flames flickering in the indigo night,
Dancing, they light the circle of faces.

Alongside Oolera, earlier painted blood-red
By the setting sun and visited by Wanambi
The rainbow serpent, - now lies dark and quiet,
Listening to the murmurings, watching for the spirits
That will surely arrive.
From the distant domes of Katajuta,
Across the Valley of the Winds.

The circle of faces, the droonoodoo,
Whispers of the rain man, Pakadringa,
And of Tya, Doowi and Alcheringa, -
The Aborigine Dreamtime.

Whitsunday Nineteen Ninety-Five

Silence, pierced only by the seagulls cry,
Jagged rocks sculptured by the wind and sea,
Tenacious thrift clinging to the rock,
Their heads, magenta, nodding to the breeze.
Stones, now scattered, evidence of the Picts,
Grazing cattle studying the sea.

Did we pass through some unseen barrier
To arrive in this timeless, silent scene?
Footprints vanish in the rebounding turf,
We leave no trace that we have ever been.

Defiant land, sea, unclouded heaven,
From this vantage point, given a clear day,
Ancient kingdoms, it's said, - seven,
Can be seen from here, Mull of Galloway.

Thoughts in a Welsh woodland

The Autumn sun filters through the trees and butterflies dance in its light. Leaves appear motionless until one, as though imitating the butterflies, flitters to the ground, feeling obliged to fall because today is the first of September.

Somewhere in the stillness of it all, birds call to one another and a squirrel bounds from branch to branch with comsummate ease.
Beyond the field a brook babbles because that is what it is supposed to do, making smooth the stones as it swirls around the corner it has carved out, leaving behind its ripples to prove that it had passed this way.

Close by in Salem graveyard lie Davies, Edwards, Howells and Williams, the slate headstones of their tombs at one with Nature, their wrought-iron surrounds leaning as though weakened as hosts to the ivy.

Incongruous obelisks of polished marble, products of more recent times, stand on the higher slope commanding an even better view of the landscape, as though in a theatre's more expensive seats.

Come the dusk and the woodland bats know that it is their time. They unhook themselves from daytime beams and flap about, their dark cloaks silhouetted against the opaline sky.