A Solstice Story

The White Lady wanders through the world on Solstice Night, her heart as cold and lonely as the dark night.  

Stars sparkle in the sky above.  The crescent moon sails on silver clouds and its light catches on the snow-crystals floating through the air, blown by the wind from the branches of sleeping giants.

As she wanders through fields of star-dust, an owl flies silently overhead watching her wandering.  A fox hides among the hedgerow, watching the White Lady pass.  A deer stands in stillness inside the edge of the wood, watching as she wanders close to the forest.

She hears music, so soft at first she cannot tell from where it comes, but the song grows and she follows the music, drawn deep into the woods until she finds a great ancient Pine. 

The music stops and she sees at the base of the tree a bundle tucked into the needles and roots.  She picks up the bundle only to find that it is a small child.  It is the child of Hope, the child of Light, the reborn Sun and the gift of the new year.

The White Lady holds the child close and smiles as she carries it back to her home to care for it, and the Green man, having seen all that has happened, smiles at the light that begins to glow brightly in her heart.

Yule

From the Darkness of the Void,

deep and silent,

on the longest of nights,

stars sparkle in the sky above;

reflecting sparks rising from the fires of Hope.

And in the East,

the horizon shimmers

with the coming Dawn.

I Remember

I remember the sounds the world made, the songs of trees and stones and stars,

the sound of flowing water that made my heart sing,

I remember the sounds I knew

before my soul went deaf from the fever I had as a child.

I am learning to hear them once again,

and I am learning to sing.

Burning

My dreams burn;

the inner-most places of my body and soul,

guarded for light years

by ice-walls,

from anyone’s touch,

burn with memories.

My blood burns,

with the heat of the bed,

now cold,

my skin with blisters and scars,

my tongue with the taste of salt.

My mind burns,

with his voice and the music,

with the scent of spice and sweat and smoke,

with pictures of him in that bed with another.

My heart burns itself to ashes,

with the pain of cold empty space,

and the coals of the flames it once felt.

Autumn Ride

Brandywine mare moving rhythmic under smooth leather and soft denim.

Wandering careless among crimson leaves.

Smoke rising from home-hearth, strong scent on whisper-wind.

Afternoon sun glowing golden through bare branches of old apple-orchard on october-mountain.

Wild geese flying low, sing of Scottish Kings.

Lace

Light caresses of

Afterthoughts

Catch in Cobwebs of

Electric Storms

The Flame Within

I walked tonight, just the short distance between two places, neither one of much importance.

I could have been on the moor, or in Pennsylvania wandering a cornfield, post-harvest.

This isn’t Kansas - This isn’t Oz.

Through a crack in the sky shone the clear, dark, icy night of space.

The total absence of warmth - The total absence of light from without.

The wind unrelenting on my face.

No warm soft kisses, no strong arms, no hearth and home with love and comfort.

Alone outside on a night like this will doubtless bring tears to the eyes.

Blame them on the cold of the night.

Survive on the flame within.