My poetry eBook is finally complete!

Poetry eBook poster of rabbits, a bumble bee, a fox, and Bridget Webber’s writing quill, announcing her nature poem book.
Poetry eBook poster of rabbits, a bumble bee, a fox, and Bridget Webber’s writing quill, announcing her nature poem book.
Author’s Design Courtesy Canva

After a long time sifting through my poems, both old and new, I’ve put 100 together in an eBook.

Nature Poems to Warm the Heart and Nurture the Soul

Amazon Author Page Description:

Nature Poems to Warm the Heart and Nurture the Soul contains 100 poetic verses to help you relax amid natural wonders. From ‘Polar Bear Nights,’ where ice-stars clink and jostle for space in the cosmos, to ‘Spring’s Song,’ where ‘birds sing the plough deep,’ Chapter One transports readers through the seasons.

The ocean and the shoreline take precedence in Chapter Two, which invites you to dive into that soul- nook ‘where fond recollections of seashells and waves live.’ …


The power of nature to soothe the soul and help you relax away stress

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As I shuffle through the autumn leaves in the valley with my dog, their resplendent colors amaze me. Copper, gold, and crimson mingle with yellow ocher and auburn to create a carpet that blazes into the forest floor.

“Over the wooden gate and along the path our feet, six altogether, speed with eager heels to spy the secrets hidden beyond the hedgerow and clover-filled verge.

The dirt path, a brisk journey down, dashes us sparking to a woodland of dazzle.” BW

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“Gold plumes at sunset rise to touch the sky-vault and fill with the scent of bee-trap: Honey fragrance that makes the insects swoon and, boozy, topple from moonshine petals to dance on the breeze.”


And Love Yourself Instead

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Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

“A man cannot be comfortable without his own approval.”

Mark Twain

Twain’s observation makes sense. If you don’t approve of yourself, no one else’s opinion of you will make a jot of difference to your self-regard. Similarly, if you don’t have self-compassion and love yourself unconditionally, no one else’s love for you will fill the void and give you what you need to feel whole.

I recall that in the days when I was a full-time counselor self-love was the main problem most of my clients faced. Only, they didn’t know not caring for themselves sufficiently was what troubled them. Usually, they would say “my spouse doesn’t pay me enough attention.”


A Christmas poem

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I set myself a challenge to pen one Christmas poem a day.

There was a time when those mistletoe clusters hung like icicles.

Each berry, ripe, sung winter’s song deep into the night.

Its melody flew on ancient wings to soar across a snow-capped mountain.

There, eagles circled,

twisting and soaring.

A dance amid the white flakes and chill wind.

Now we bring the berries in,

to hang in cozy homes.

The fireside crackles,

and mulled wine warms,

as lips meet beneath the druid’s magic chimes.


There’s still magic between the snowflakes

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I recall that Christmas magic –

being six and the long wait beneath the covers.

listening for the reindeer’s clip-clop atop the roof –

and,

once again,

I sink back to childhood,

far along the memory tunnel,

to find the spark,

the warm heart,

close to bursting at the seams.

I note the bubbling up of that gasp at snowflakes falling through the dark,

the scamper to the window,

and parting the curtains.

The stocking check,

ten times an hour,

(at least)

to see if Santa’s been yet,

and my breath amid the concentration of it all.

And,

though now,

old enough to be a…


A short tale under the moon

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This little countryside valley is aglow. Christmas lights twinkle in windows far earlier than usual. Villagers say “bring on the festive cheer.” They adorn their gardens with wicker reindeer and cast walls alight with Santa stencils.

Sleighs take off into the night. They pass inflated snowmen on their way to the cosmos, and Copernicus, my canine companion, is thoughtful about the situation.

“Do you imagine,” he woofs, “people need to find that inner warmth. You know. The kind that comes from carols, tinsel, and eggnog?”

We stare at our neighbor’s Christmas tree. I look for the star at the top. …


A poem

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Those days when the fog won’t lift light a candle.

Let it blaze warmth into your bones,

casting demons from their shelter.

If they should dance before you,

hellbent to cause mayhem,

whisper love songs through the haze.

They’ll shrink as pink flowers,

scattering sweet fragrance at your feet.


Meditating among gentle nature

A man and dog enjoy the beauty of nature in the evening woodland sunset.
A man and dog enjoy the beauty of nature in the evening woodland sunset.
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I meditate this afternoon, late, under a line of beeches and oaks. Their canopies sway in the breeze. My velvet cushion, a gold and auburn leaf-carpet underfoot, is soft and warm. Even Copernicus, my canine companion, slows to a steady trot rather than engage in his usual scurry and bounce. He admires nature and breathes in the day.

I breathe out troubles — those tiny worries that seem huge, yet mean little when the sun shines through the branches. They swim, bone-surface, out into the chirp and forage, the busyness of wildlife behind the calm exterior.

Forest-bathed, I glide, light now after the immersion, and note the sounds of the natural world gather speed as I am still. The wind rustles copper autumn leaves. The horses in a nearby field gallop and whinny, and squirrels’ scamper. …


You think she’s had it. But just when you consider it’s time to quit, she roars along the tracks and shoots up to knock the dead foliage from her carcass

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Nature plucks each woman in her prime and plants her deep. Soil pours into her eye-sockets so she can’t see and fills her mouth so she cannot speak. Her misspent youth and misconceptions leach into the earth and are replaced by light. Each cell glows, sending tendrils to poke into a new day.

She arises as a wise woman. Although, yesterday’s pain exists along a thread tied to her waist. She pulls it close when the sky is heavy, then releases it to the wind when the sun rises in her bones.

That drab-shadow afternoon sees me stuck. To walk through it is like stirring thick rice pudding in the big pot with a thin wooden spoon.


Short story about a dog’s antics and a slippery slope

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That crimson and gold leaf-blanket is like a slide. It wants to slurp me down the steep, wet, mud path and eject me onto the road below. I dig my heels into the ooze and lean forward, traveling uphill, as if my weight will provide traction.

Copernicus, my dog, dances at my side. His eyes sparkle with wonder and joy, and his long black and white fur sticks out as though he’s been to a beauty parlor. My hair looks like a ten-ton truck rolled it flat.

“It’s so terrific here!” He grins and prances. “Come on. Let’s run!”

His mood is infectious. A small smile reaches the corners of my mouth, which, a moment prior, sank into the dank mire. My pace quickens. Not into a run, but with the surge experienced when your heart grows light. …

About

The Bolt-Hole

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