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Poetry, short stories revealing mystical inner emotions flowing through our veins - then cascading over the oceans of our time and spaces.
WINTER'S GHOST
Autumn moon
incautious in the dark river
Winter's ghost walks
with a covered face
and silver bones wait in all animals
to be bone cloth upon her shoulder
wait for her happiness in that they are silver
AN ANCIENT SUN
Drink in the heat of an ancient sun
held in the cold fire of water rising
from earth and rock
Spilling over your cupped hands
and drawn to lips and tongue
Pouring water's memory
of the azure mist it fell from
into the chalice of your flesh
Turning your eyes skywards
with desire
for the freedom it was born of
THE ORACLE'S MIRROR
The oracle's mirror
waiting for the Earth to unveil her
The wolf's howl over snow
The quiet place inside you -
the vast knowing of the soul
DREAMS ARE LIKE THE OLD STORIES
Dreams are like the old stories where wolves are seekers always running, and women carry fire in their bare hands and light the dark paths before them.
Old stories hold that the birds will fly all the miles of the world to tell your secrets to the rising moon, and men will walk over oceans of ice to find one truth.
THE FIRES OF NIGHT
The fires of night
through distance dance
ghosts who still know how to sing
MY BEST GARMENTS WERE MADE OF ICE
My best garments were made of ice
falling in translucent snowdrifts
- encase the evidence of years
attempt to preservation
But cannot cease
the Earth that flows
in liquid demolition
Glistening ice that
breaks on the greater movement
and the continents shift
and the change is all consuming
and the fire rivers reform
and the form itself does own
no garments timeless
SELKIE
Alone, the cold body of the selkie man lay upon the sand, so like the drowned one the widow had called for.
For her longing, he was hauled upon the sand, exposed to the moonlight.
The selkie strained in fraught movements and human form broke from the gleaming seal fur.
Undeniably he bore the image of the widow's lost husband and spoke with the sounds of the dead man's voice.
She hailed back from the rocks.
Shadows accumulating beyond the moon's ability to reform.
Colours were washed from sight and silver crashed through her, colder than snow dreams of being.
In the dark, the ocean became the rolling flanks of a great beast drifting back across the horizon.
Out deep soon, the land's drop sharp.
