This week’s challenge is ‘Forward’, moving forward being the idea suggested.
This little scrawny fox was forward in a different sense when it came up near the house in the middle of the day to feast on fallen plums.
I guess it was really hungry, but it was so casual about it.
One spring following the Mt Lubra fire, we went on our favourite bush walk, only to find that there was no way forward where the track used to be. A fine dense crop of Acacia pycnantha aka Kangaroo Thorn aka (your choice of swearwords) completely covered the track.
As in the children’s rhyme, there being no way through, we had to go around.
We still went forward, just not the way we planned.
I took this picture with my phone, whilst moving forward on a bus.
It’s somewhere west of Ballarat, late in the day.
The sky was serenely beautiful, the sun moving forward towards the west, to light up India and beyond.
(Actually, the Earth is rotating etc, but we all know that!)
I’m guessing by the size of the kids that I took this one about 21 years ago.
They were going forward down the lane to school.
Since then they’ve all grown up and moved forward out of home and into the world.
In life we are always moving forward, even when we have to go around, or feel like we have been forced out of our comfort zone, like the plum-eating fox.
I learned this poem in high school, and after forty years, I have it almost word-perfect.
However, I had to Google it to find out the Cecil Day-Lewis wrote it.
It’s all about moving forward, and I love it!
Children look down upon the morning-grey
Tissue of mist that veils a valleys lap:
Their fingers itch to tear it and unwrap the flags, the roundabouts, the gala day.
They watch the spring rise inexhaustibly –
A breathing thread out of the eddied sand,
Sufficient to their day; but half their mind
Is on the sailed and glittering estuary.
Fondly we wish their mist might never break,
Knowing it hides so much that best were hidden:
We’d chain them by the spring, lest it should broaden
For them into a quicksand and a wreck,
But they slip through our fingers like the source,
Like mist, like time that has mapped out their course.
I am also looking forward to a small person, one of these days, who will wear these itty bitty clothes, and go on to call me granny, and on whom I can be a bad influence, teaching him/her to question authority and listen to the Melvins/Meatpuppets/Mudhoney…