SKYE CUNNINGHAM X
​MARION SHEARMAN
FIRST LIGHT
Spring has sprung.
Finally, shedding the weighty blanket of winter,
that has cocooned me
from the harshness of the last bleak months.
Dawn has broken.
This emerging spring morning is gentle,
enticing, it promises excitement and growth.
How can I not be seduced,
revitalised even, by the burst of colours,
illuminating even the darkest of cracks in my vision.
The canvas before me is ready to be transformed.
Glorious spring showers have overnight rejuvenated the ground,
and the air is fragrant and fresh.
The sweetness of the songbirds melody heralds a new day,
an open book, with a new chapter ready to be penned.
Before me, the plum tree blossoms,
dapple the morning landscape,
the rising of the sun accentuates the tinted treetops,
swaying freely in the breeze.
The scattered indigo clouds create a patchwork of wonder across the sky.
I am a lone spectator to the richness of nature unfolding before me.
How can I not feel rejuvenated by the suns hues on my face,
or moved by the beauty of the light mottled between the trees?
Darkness has waned, light has returned.
I no longer need to call upon my thunder.
Today I am walking forward with joy.
A seed of change has been planted and this time,
I will let it bloom.
THE ANCESTRALL HALL
The evening sun painted the quiet fishing village in vibrant hues of amber. I made my way along an uneven narrow path till it finally petered out. Before me stood the old ancestral hall, its tiled roof silhouetted against the fiery sky.
Centuries of prayer and remembrance were captured within its worn brick walls. Its energy swirling like leaves dancing to the melody of the autumn wind. A stone phoenix and a dragon stood guard over the hall from their elevated perch on the red tiles. Observing the arrival and departure of worshippers.
Two red lanterns at either side of the entrance bobbed gently in the evening breeze, their warm illumination felt surprisingly comforting.
Entering the doorway of the building, I was greeted by the strong, heady smell of incense. Tall tablets lined the interior in perfect formation, each carved surface bearing names of those now departed. The flickering red lanterns that adorned the hall swayed gently from their hooks, their crimson glow reflected upon the polished inscriptions. Characters etched into the stone, crafted by the hands of my forefathers. I ran my fingertips over the grooves, tracing ghostly markings, longing to connect with the spirits of the past.
From the ceiling of the hall, huge cones of spiral incense hung from a beam. Curling tendrils of smoke dispersed and caressed the hanging lanterns, covering the space with a serene hazy richness.
On the ground bundles of burning incense carried wafting prayers towards the heavens. Blessings for the ancestors. Its strong earthy aroma momentarily transported me from the present to the past.
Memories of this place, in years gone by, my family, our traditions. I remember the offerings of fruit and tea near the altar. The celebrations and the sadness witnessed in this space. The excitement of the lighting of the lanterns, welcoming new sons to the family. I have been away for too long, memories of this place almost lost.
Our history is scribed upon every surface of this hall, our families’ joys, struggles and sorrows stretched back as far as the walls themselves. I’m a single branch on a great tree, my veins filled with the same sap that nurtured those that came before me.
As I depart the hall, I linger in the doorway. This place has borne witness to our beginnings and endings, our triumphs and toils. These walls have absorbed our tears, our despair, and our joys alike. As I leave here my ancestors’ spirits still remain. Their strength and wisdom radiates far beyond these walls, guiding and protecting me always, until we meet once more, at the crossroads of tomorrow.
