A Poem is a walk

Posted on 13. June 201713. June 2017 by Hanna

These grazing meadows are in the middle of a large wooded area.
It is an inexhaustible source of different walks.
The landscape has repeatedly been exposed to different influences of ice age, leaving a highly hilly landscape according to Danish standards. Hurray for diversity ❤

With the first step, the number of shapes the walk might take is infinite, but then the walk begins to define itself as it goes along, though freedom remains total with each step: any tempting side road can be turned into an impulse, or any wild patch of woods can be explored. The pattern of the walk is to come true, is to be recognized, discovered.
A.R. Ammons

Naturvandring.blog

Farewell May

Posted on 31. May 201731. May 2017 by Hanna

May
Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
These are my heralds, and behold! my name
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
I waft o’er all the land from far away
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

My Walk in The Shire

Posted on 16. April 201717. April 2017 by Hanna

Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!

The wind’s in the tree-top, the wind’s in the heather;
The stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,
And bright are the windows of night in her tower.Dance all ye joyful, now dance all together!
Soft is the grass, and let foot be like feather!
The river is silver, the shadows are fleeting;
Merry is May-time, and merry our meeting.Sigh no more pine, till the wind of the morn!
Fall Moon! Dark be the land!
Hush! Hush! Oak, ash and thorn!
Hushed by all water, till dawn is at hand!

All Ye Joyful by J. R. R. Tolkien

Vandretur i Ejby Ådal

The Small Uncaring Ways

Posted on 6. April 20176. April 2017 by Hanna

Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute,
day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.
Stephen Vincent Benet

No wasted minutes on this icy cold spring day.
The lapwing cries and makes spectacular patterns in the air.
The horses play tag and roll in the dust.
It’s an outstanding day 🙂

A Bee

Posted on 24. March 201724. March 2017 by Hanna

What do you suppose?
A bee sat on my nose.
Then what do you think?
He gave me a wink
And said, “I beg your pardon,
I thought you were the garden.
Rhyme from England

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee, a clover, anytime, to him, is aristocracy.
Emily Dickinson

Is it safe?

Posted on 20. March 201720. March 2017 by Hanna

The March wind roars
Like a lion in the sky,
And makes us shiver
As he passes by.
When winds are soft,
And the days are warm and clear,
Just like a gentle lamb,
Then spring is here.
Author Unknown

Is it safe to go there? I ask a woman who comes walking towards me on the bridge. She empties one of her shoes for water and mud.
She was trying to avoid deep puddles, and her foot disappear into a mud hole instead. I can not laugh at incidences like that, I’ve tried them all.
She is warning me for strong wind gusts.
I don’t find it attractive to swim in the icy water wearing a lot of clothes that will pull me down but the walk is great.

Vejle Sø, Holte

Rudersdal

Vaserne, Rudersdal

Chr. Winthers Sti

Tufted ducks, Vaserne, Rudersdal

Vaserne, Rudersdal

Folks in disbelief

Lighthearted Birds

Posted on 9. March 2017 by Hanna

On my walk towards the sea today, I heard the skylark and the lapwing. The larks song was persistent, and suddenly it flew quite close to me. I think the bird was frolicsome 🙂
All the birds were busy. Buzzards gathered, and rose on thermals while their screams mingled with ravens and crows.
On my way home I even heard the yellow hammer.

March! March! March! They are coming
In troops to the tune of the wind.
Redheaded woodpeckers drumming,
Gold – crested thrushes behind;
Sparrows in brown jackets, hopping
Past every gateway and door;
Finches, with crimson caps, stopping
Just where they stopped before.
March! March! March! They are slipping
Into their places at last. . .
Literature white lily buds, dripping
Under the showers that fall fast;
Buttercups, violets, roses;
Snowdrop and bluebell and pink,
Throng upon throng of sweet posies
Bending the dewdrops to drink.
March! March! March! They will hurry
Forth at the wild bugle sound,
Blossoms and birds in a flurry,
Fluttering all over the ground.
Shake out your flags, birch and willow!
Shake out your red tassels, larch!
Grass blades, up from your earth – pillow.
Hear who is calling you. . . March.
Lucy Larcom, March

Much Ado

Posted on 28. February 201728. February 2017 by Hanna

It began to snow in the evening. The snow blocked the view. The world went white. At the same time came the silence. The kind of silence that is almost audible. The silence that gets us to relax and put the world to a halt.
The morning came and the world was new. The forest was stunningly beautiful. The sun’s warming drew thick white lines against the azure sky when cascades of snow had to let go of their hold in the tall pines in the forest. Everywhere I could hear unexpected sounds as if there were thousands of animals set loose among the trees. But it was the snow that was visiting and did much ado about itself.

Erantis

Posted on 21. February 2017 by Hanna

The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size.
Gertrude S. Wister

The Magical Power of Snow

Posted on 15. February 201715. February 2017 by Hanna

The hoarse cries of a raven put me in adventure mood. A few kilometres further on, only the creaking of snow under my shoes breaks the silence, This is an amazing day after the blizzard and the light makes my heart sing.
I’m grateful for being alive.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the withered air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, and housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson