we look to the future of warm winter fires
farewell to sweet summer, before long to return
the hedgerows are full of the fruits of the sun
we sowed in good trust and reap what we earn
John Barleycorn, he must die once again
we harvest the grain for the threshing floor
returning the first gifts to bless the land
it is the time to give thanks for our winter store
What kind of sacrifice is this i find
but the corpse of a fledgling bird
suspended amidst the Blackberry thorns
at the end of Summer days,
redolent of the well-known tale
of the Nightingale and the Rose ,
with no explanation but thoughtless fate,
the fate that finally finds us all,
in whichever way it falls
if i could subtract
i would remove
all the block and ballast
of all the past relationships
and every word i said that hurt
there would be no divisions
all good things would multiply
i would add love to every word i said
to make the truth sing clear
i am not a mathematician
my sums don’t all add up
i mumble through the algebra
and stumble through equations
to show you all i really mean
i’d need geometry
that pure divine expression
of balanced harmony
Romantic love is a fragile thing;
joyous, beguiling, appealingly sweet.
At the first fearful thought it flies away
a trembling bird on a shattered wing.
Frightened away by too much enquiring,
too many questions, best left unasked,
too honestly answered, unwisely perhaps.
In the garden, where once was a breeze
that gently seduced and played with your hair
there now comes a storm that bows down the trees
tugs at the branches and strips all the leaves.
I heard the twigs snapping in two.
We lash the trunk to a stake for the strength.
We discover how shallow the roots are sunk.
Love grows stronger or love lies wounded.
There is no denying the truth.
The lessons of Cupid and Psyche
are as old as the well worn challenging hills.
We wander and wonder
and never will learn not to ask.
I hand you healing as best I can
to conjure the summers return.
A simple concoction of words could suffice.
You didn’t hear me.
You didn’t heed them.
You heard only bad weather news.
Now we don’t talk about love any more.
We lost all our sense of the deeper feeling.
Now the door to my heart is sealed
against storms, real, imagined or fleeting,
by your, oh so kindly said, gentle words:
‘I will always love you, truly, I mean it.
I will always love you my darling one,’
and then, oh, so revealing,
resounding throughout every possible meaning,
that final, heart wrenching
‘But…………’
when i was small and nothing was named
triangles rounded, appealing yet strange,
pink pastel , green, powder blue, cream,
on a chain of balls hung by my hand
in the space now named kitchen, mundane,
a wondrous light gleamed on the taps
a window shaped shadow shone on the wall
sunspots and dazzle in dust motes that danced
the magical, mystical weave of the world
daydreams later, music, rhythms and words,
hidden companions jumped out of books
words that told astonishing thing, they flew
black wings, deep blue, a momentary flash,
crystalline visions, a jewel shone in a beak,
a message from angels that sheltered the bed.
morning left on the walk to the school
to the room of the witch, her ice cold eyes
held nightmares, inaccessible stars,
barred windows where birds sang outside
a world full of things not understood
diving inward, escaping
curled up tight in a ball
eternally quiet
eternally small
The lamps shine down from windows high above,
Burning moths, white wings singe against the light.
Old roses hang against the well worn walls
Amongst the darker tangle of the leaves,
Their blossoms gleaming as each petal falls,
While lovers sleep entranced in tender dreams,
Turning now and then throughout the long night,
Entwined and locked together by their limbs.
I stand below here, pierced and polarised.
The galaxies are singing psalms and hymns.
Seeing, I lose all sense of who I am.
I see a sky that’s full of shooting stars.
No wish I make can change our mortal fate.
It’s beautiful, it’s passing and it’s late.
the cat always vanished as the man approached
hiding in the shadows as quiet as a mouse
the house fell silent, the walls became all ears,
leaning, straining forward, the better they may hear
the fear of his footsteps, coming closer now
i stayed very still, my expression was a mask
my thoughts were my own, untouchable, my home
a cat will vanish, i could only wait
confronted by this hatred
i escaped,
i had learned to levitate
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet
this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?
the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play
the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale
In the centre of a forest
I find myself alone.
I am truly lost.
I look behind the way I came;
Broken branches, sodden leaves.
I crashed through there in dreams.
I hurt the wood.
I see no path ahead.
Night begins to fall,
no sky in view above. I stand transfixed,
the ground beneath my feet,
unstable now, green leaves above a pit.
I cannot move. No footprints lay ahead.
I can only wait, deserved and destined fate.
I ask the spirits of this forest
for a way to see the path.
I hear no answer, just the hollow echoes of my voice.
I will stand here in the night and wait
until an answer comes.
Darkness gathers round.
In the morning
when light returns
I’ll try to find a better path
and attempt to make amends.
The Dreaming Path 