I Must.... I Simply Must..

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking, 

I must go down to the seas again for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, 

And the flung spray and the brown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, 

To the gulls’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, 

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

by John Masefield

***

As you can see from the photo above, 

I am off this week, feeding my soul.

I shall return with merry yarns, soon.

xoxo

pamela

The White Feather

The White Feather

If the afternoon had not been so hot, with a sun so relentless, then perhaps I would not have chosen the hat with the widest brim.   I might even have gone hatless, preferring instead to let the wind blow my hair as I took in the expansive green vistas of an early August day.  Maybe I would have been looking up. 

Up through the trees to the blue sky beyond.

 Up where the mockingbirds chase the red-shouldered hawks away from their nests.

 Up where the  clouds draw grand pictures at the gates of  heaven.   

I would have been studying those pictures perhaps, trying to decide what they were -

 A castle? A dragon?  

Spinning wheel?  

Hare?

But I wore the wide-brimmed hat to hide from the sun and my view winnowed down to the earth at my feet.  
Focused, sharpened, my eyes wrapped around the smaller things:

 the acorns, the pebbles - blue violets, green moss.  

And then, there it was,

 pinned to the ground by a shaft of sunlight falling hard through the trees,

 white as bone, light as the air. 

A feather.

I bent to pick it up.

     

Stronger than it looked at first sight, each tiny white strand clasped together along the quill, like hands.
 So sadly grounded, still ready for flight.  

Too small for a wren, a robin, or thrush.

Had it dropped from the wing of a gull, or an owl?

Or perhaps from my guardian angel, in an effort to prove that she’s there.

Now it sits in a vase on my desk.

I run my fingers down the ruffled edge at least once a day.

Not to remind myself of flight that has ended, 

but flight that has yet to be.

Votes For Edward

Garden and Gun magazine is having a dog photo contest, 

and Edward has entered!

Help him show the world that a rescue dog can be a winner!

Vote for him HERE and tell your friends!

(PS.... you can vote once every 24 hours!)

Edward thanks you so much!
********

Heads up.... the contest has now ended.
Edward thanks you all heartily for your votes!
Fingers crossed!!
xoxo

Bonus!
The wonderful author of Forever Chic, Tish Jett,
has written a delightful piece on dogs and
has generously featured Edward,
who now feels like he's already won.
Visit her HERE.