Alive Once More

Alive Once More


   Once more the marshland of the east wakes from it's winter sleep, finches fill the hedgerows, heron and cormorants fish the drains and rivers and buds of every kind rest upon tree branch. Again the the river banks are covered in a mosaic of yellow daffodils, from white to golden butter, heads dance in the fen breeze while reed beds emerge from the ice cold waters where eel and zander feed.
   Fen tigers sow seed in kitchen gardens and livestock are placed upon lush fresh grass while the last winter logs are warming still those few cold nights that remain.

Playing With Rock

Playing With Rock

   With Spring well and truly upon us, this bead maker has been enjoying the warmer weather, the longer evenings and the fresh enthusiasm that this wonderful season brings. The new beads in both the ebay and etsy stores are fast becoming popular and my days are once more filled with the enjoyment of making the beads I myself love, the more natural beads for which I am known.

 
   The actions I took of completely emptying both shops to start afresh were a risk of course, but I just couldn't go on spending day after day making beads that failed to please me, it wasn't me at all. I knew it was time to introduce once more my love for the rock and silver effects that bring that smile to my face and if this meant the odd customer who was looking just for cheap beads would no longer buy my work, then so be it.
   I must admit, to say I'm enjoying my work more is an understatement, I'm loving it, those feelings of excitement are once more there when I open my kiln each morning and as any true bead maker will tell you, that is such an important part of this life.
   To take a look at the new stock that is being added each week to the shops just click on the following links, https://www.etsy.com/shop/pebbledreams  http://stores.ebay.co.uk/Beads-Of-Glass I hope you find something that may interest you.
    Now it's time for this old bead hermit to get back to his flame and the magical world of fire and glass, that little world free of stress and worry.

Making Beads For Me

    

   Bitter cold frost fights the early spring sunshine this March morning, the bird song loud and cheery as this bead maker gets ready for another day playing with his flame, more magical focal beads I hope will be produced and dreams of that one perfect bead will still ride my thoughts.

    For the first time in years I’m making beads I like, those beads I enjoy and those beads that excite me when I empty my kiln, no more will I spend days making beads that mean nothing to me, now I get that pleasure once more that I felt before my bead making became my living, once more I feel proud of my beads.

   Sometimes we have to take a risk in the way we earn our living, in my case did I wish to churn out beads that meant nothing hour after hour just to make coin or would I prefer to make beads that maybe not so many people would buy but beads that made my working days far more enjoyable, I’ve taken the second option. And by doing so it has once more lit that passion inside me that I really thought I had lost, there were times I even considered leaving my torch cold to seek another path to follow but thank heavens I didn’t, for I know how unhappy I would have been without a flame in my life and that warm kiln beside me. 

Winter Sun

   Fresh breeze, blue sky and glorious winter sun that places a lustrous sheen upon the great willows do welcome me this weekend morning. Goldfinch feed on seed and the wicked talk of the magpie does echo through the conifer wood, the home of jay and sparrow hawk, where dappled stars of light cut through the hanging mist.

   Cock pheasant struts from hadgerow to open headland, the sun lighting his rainbow chest like polished glass while brambles rest from frost and ice for just one day. For this bead maker a day of fresh air will be enjoyed and the pen too will enjoy freedom, for it's words will bring memories and opinions that none can erase.

Winter Coat

   With snow white frost nestled under shade and Egrets searching the ice filled dykes that line every jet black acre, the cold north west winds sweep the fenland on this day of rest like winter's own besom broom. The blackbird rambles like a drunken sailor through the berry clad branches while those of baptist faith entre cold chapels where brick and timber house great words of priphets and disciples.
   My mind dreams of the past souls who stood in this cold fen air, breath rising from every word as fingers bare the winter coat that we all wear, a coat that colours the cheeks and fills the lungs, with coldness, but one that keeps us healthy and fen tigers strong.
 

Winter's Tear

   Yuletide chimes and plays of nativity have now passed and winter's tear will soon reach the great magical lands of the marsh. Fen tigers will once more behold her freezing breath that casts white coats of ice upon the dark soil, coal black soil, those acres of jet carpet that feed so many will lay warm beneath awaiting springs arrival.
   Great water birds still fly the cold wide skies as reed beds of the East sleep in the shallow waters that quench the thirst of ancient Willows and the woodpeckers that rule the apple orchards still feed on the grasses that lay beneath those aged grey barked trees, home of worm and grub alike.
   Now the years end is upon us we remember those seasons passed, bright fresh spring mornings with late frosts steaming in the sun, long summer days when wheat and barley danced in fen breeze while natures theatre gave yet another award winning performance and those bonfire filled autumn evenings as nights drew in and mole catchers homes were warmed by bog oak and peat, once more we welcome the fresh winter snows to clean away the old and ready these flat lands for the new.
 

Morning Of Souls

   Winter tree lines wear no jewellery this morning, the mighty Oak and Ash stand naked of leaf and the early winter winds clear the last autumn dust from their bark.
   The fen chill settles in sheets of fine haunting mist that stand above that rich black soil and rises like walking grey souls from river and dyke where banks of dew covered sedge and reed dance their morning jig. Could Dickens make up such a mystic atmosphere where mole catcher and waterman wake at dawn in dark fenland cottage with damp floors of stone and stove that slept the night with amber glow from peat and bog oak, maybe only the magic of this mysterious land of the marsh can do such things and will continue to do so long after his pages are gone from our world.
   As the months of ice and snow draw closer and the tigers of the fen face their hard season, a season when natures larder bares no salads but only peppered herb and festive game to fill their stomach, there sits a change in the flatlands, a strange quiet presence, maybe the spirit of winter settles upon the garden of the east, her bitter cold breath still to appear.