The Silk Cotton

A couple of years ago, the ancient guardian, that had stood at the entrance of the steep sided road that winds a circuitous way to the village for as long as anyone could remember, fell. The earth vibrated with the deep rumbling crash as one giant arm of the sentinel hit the ground. We held our breath. The Silk Cotton Tree, having watched over this community for hundreds of years, home to spirits, Soucouyant and jumbie, had finally lost the strength to stand with outstretched limb. T took to the road with everyone else and went 'to see'. All traffic both in and out of the village ceased, electricity was cut off and before long the sound of chain saws and numerous instructions could be heard. A taxi driver and his passengers had had a narrow escape as did Bev who owns the adjacent spice shop but luckily everyone was alright. Here is a link to the local news report on that day.
Post by GBN Television News. 
Some time later, T returned home with all the talk and a slice of this great buttressed sentry which is where it has stayed, unadorned, until now. I have long been an avid reader and admirer of Rima Staines's
wonderful work and blog The Hermitage and in that spirit, but without her ability, set out to paint a memory on the slice of this special tree that we once ran past as night fell.

Tonight is Halloween, and I hope a fitting occasion to mark the passing of a keeper of souls.

Playtime

 Coconut flower stalks, coconut flex, banana straw and raffia.

Between projects and a little out of sorts, I spied the bag of
booty I had brought down from Corn Buck a few weeks ago
and looked inside. Play, the doing of something for the sheer
pleasure of it, is a pastime that I have forgotten to indulge in.
Work is worthy, as is cleaning, cooking etc. but play, as with
sticks in mud or a stone skimmed, has somehow become
something that I find myself either never having the time for
or feeling guilty about.
The very word 'indulge' suggests a secret vice.
I was surprised to realise this about myself, surprised by how
serious and earnest I had become about 'the work' and even
more surprised by the fact that I was surprised that the flow
of creativity had dried up.

The crock of gold

Once upon a time, a long time ago, or it could have been the day
before yesterday, a woman looked out from her front step and
wondered,"Shall I dig for it now?" She checked with the moon
and watched the weather and decided it was time.

The flowers
were almost
done and the
leaves had
turned yellow
and wilted

and with the
turn of the
fork, which
was easier
said than done,
the buried
treasure was
revealed.

She carefully teased the soil from the roots and left them in the
sun to cure. The next day she sat by the pipe in the yard with a
scrubbing brush and a bucket of water and washed and scrubbed
and washed and scrubbed and washed and scrubbed some more.

By lunchtime all her golden nuggets were clean and shining.

With an aching back and a painful posterior, ('is how you sit on
the bucket' her lovely husband told her later) she settled
down on the floor upstairs in the little house, with a sharp knife and
a silver bowl, and began to chip, (just like Miss UG had taught her)

and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip.

Finally, her work
was done. She
put everything to
dry in the sun
next to the
cocoa beans
on the
veranda.












Naturally, despite scrubbing and soaping

she was left with the Midas touch and went to bed to dream of
Rumpelstiltskin.
To be continued...................

Banana fibre paper

Going to try this minus:
my hand in the blender,
the blue dye
and wearing my best yellow jersey.