Into the Deep Greenwood is now available on Kindle and also as a paperback (internationally). The USA link is below
http://www.amazon.com/Raven-Storyteller-Into-Deep-Greenwood-ebook/dp/B00NP7BXX8/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1411202452&sr=1-2&keywords=raven+and+storyteller
Author: A. Gouedard
The Rose Revives
Sorrow comes and goes,
full-blown rose and petals falling,
sadness passes with morning
the dawning of a bud
arriving.
A rose that opens
perfumes and enlightens
the air and the space it habituates,
a joy when it arrives,
reviving.
Even when watered by tears
deep in its heart there is nectar
to gather and treasure,
the returning life of the rose,
surviving.
A Change of Climate
Swish of tyres on tarmac, passing,
sunshine streams, pooled pavements,
broad silvered snail trails of light,
reflection rippled in shallow puddles,
dark stark trees, spider limbs.
The sky is white, blinding, bright.
Up above a magpie screeches
it splits the air, startles me.
I squint my eyes to see
a flurry of feathers, a turn, a spin
the sky expands, all is dazzle,
sparkling shimmers, lifting wings.
A flock of migrating starlings taking flight
my heart rises up, follows
as they dip, turn, rise again
patterns shifting, riding air flows,
take direction, vanish to a far horizon
I may never see again.
Red earth that burns your feet,
rising dust walled by dried out mud,
cold shade in fountained courtyards,
the call to prayer at dawn
above green and golden minarets,
African heat, a dream.
Good Luck Spell
I give you a daisy chain, sunshine, a star
To brighten your heart and bring you delight
Four leafed clovers, chimney sweeps, double sixes,
Two magpies for joy, happy pixies, shooting stars in the night.
May your new leaf turn over with exuberant ease
And you pancakes flip with vigour, no ceiling stuck plight.
If you ever should find yourself stuck asleep in a box
May your dreams sail with rainbows, in high arching flight.
Now stir gently the white of a golden egg
Into the cauldron, with a big scoop of light,
The scent of wild violets, some fluffy white clouds,
A dollop of love and a sky that is bright.
In short, may all your wildest dreams always come true.
On this wish I will leave you. I wish you adieu.
Day 96: Swansea to Aberdare
I have re-blogged this due to the interesting South Wales history it contains
‘We haven’t heard the full story’
– Conversation in the Dic Penderyn, Merthyr Tydfil.
I awake with slow and heavy movements in Uplands, Swansea, a residential suburb of the city largely populated with students at the nearby university. It’s the morning after the night before, and though my head’s not aching – I wisely bowed out of the drinking around 2am – I’m feeling a bit worn out.
Remarkably, Sarah and her housemates are all up before I am. Their relative youthfulness means they can manage a few hours’ kip and be up and spritely again! My age expresses itself as a headache, one slowly assuaged with coffee and Weetabix. We talk about drugs and their legalisation. I always feel slightly surprised when I hear people discussing drugs openly, call me sheltered, but across my trip, and I guess indeed before, it’s something that I notice younger people are more…
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Woooot !
I just finished the sequel to Raven and Storyteller – this moment !
I do have to do a final edit of course but that’s the easiest part :)
cherry blossom
hear how the nightingale calls
as in the night the cherry blossom falls
to spread a carpet before your feet
the bowl of the night surrounds you
holding you in an embrace so complete
it astounds you
Autumn
I sit in the window alone
above the darkened garden
and the lamplit streets
that lead to the far away hills.
The lamp behind me
casts my own shadow down
onto the empty lawn.
A passing stranger looks up,
hurries on and is gone.
A father carries his daughter home.
She droops on his shoulder, asleep.
The only sound is the traffic
and a party and laughter,
distant, along the street.
The moon is hidden by billowing cloud.
The stars up above are unseen.
Looking down to the gloom of the garden
I take comfort
in only the smallest things –
a frail light that shines on apple tree leaves
and the sweet, gentle autumn air.
Nanswhyden
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
On the Green Hill
she comes to me after midnight,
whispering soft in my ear
her face full of moonlight,
her dress pale blue
starlight glints in the weave
i almost understand her whispered words
in a language i once knew
she tries to tell me stories,
lost long ago in sleep,
stories i lost in a dream,
stories inscribed on a unicorns horn
and the print of a satyrs hoof
i gather a word here and there
i store them away with care
but all the next day i long for her
my heart is bewitched, enthralled
I long for the night on the hill in the wood
The Dreaming Path 