Sunday, 25 September 2016


By the fourth night of sleeping alone
at St. Nectan's Glen I'd finally cracked.
The visions had started and I couldn't handle it -
even though it was what I came here for,
was a crucial part of my training.
The fasting, the constant meditations -
all were taking their toll. I felt weak,
light-headed and shaky.

What a fool!
Naivety had fostered the expectation
of some gentle, easy transformation,
not this gruelling hardship
that seriously challenged my understanding
of life, time and being.
The biting wind and dampness of the forest
did little to help either.  I felt myself
physically and mentally fragmenting...

Bells tolling in the dead of night.
Struggling to my feet, half asleep.
Scrambling through bracken, ankle deep in mud.
Following the sound.
Up steep stone steps,
feeling my way in the darkness,
through dense blacked-out woodland.
Then, just as the ringing ceased,
I found the Hermit's Cell:
ruinous, sombre.
Much like my spirits.

Then the rain came.
Thick, penetrating drizzle
so typical of this part of the country.
Shivering, soaked to the skin and thoroughly miserable,
I'd finally had enough. Reaching
into an inside pocket for my phone,
intending to call my mentor and plead for a reprieve. signal.
Sense of total isolation and helplessness.

The rain ceased and a full moon appeared between the trees.
I stood motionless, watching the strange shadows
that seemed to flit around those crumbling walls
that were reputed to have once been home
to the tutor of Merlyn Himself.
The very stones appeared to be alive
and the unmistakable scent of incense
filled the damp air.
It was then that I noticed the figure.

Clad in hooded grey robe, it's face obscured
in shadow, I was sure
it was looking directly at me.
I froze, acutely aware of my extreme vulnerability.
But gentle words uttered in a language not my own
began to flow through me like Prana, allaying all fears.
And I understood them!
I haven't the slightest idea how.
I just did.

A kind of spiral enclosed me then
in soothing golden light - yet, simultaneously,
I seemed to be outside of it all,
observing the seasons, the planets, the suns
cycling through the aeons - and
I felt a part of this stunning spectacle,
so knew I had no end myself
and that only this body would eventually perish,
not this I who thinks, feels, and now
was just beginning to grasp the unfathomable.

And that knowledge filled my entire being
with an ecstasy like nothing I'd ever known before.
It was moving way beyond personality,
beyond thought or emotion -
even fear could no longer touch me.
So this is what it meant to be Druid -
to be part of the Old Gods' Grand Plan:
a messenger, an open channel...
with the Universe in her eyes.

Sunday, 18 September 2016


Remember how we'd spend hours together
musing on the subject of life after death?
Well, now you know much more than I.

My face, that everyone used to say
so mirrored yours,
became bathed in tears, glittering
like diamonds hardened by pain
as I tried so hard not to feel.
Skeletal hands of grief were crushing and crushing
my insides to a mush. They wrung out emotions,
while my voice still called out your name - a
disembodied, alien voice that refused to believe
it had survived you.

Day-by-day my brother moved on,
speaking of you less and less, as if
in denial that you'd ever existed.
And it stung me to the core.

Each night I just lay awake in the darkness:
a Wounded King of Arthurian myth,
my shoulders knotted to a spinal column
that had grown painfully rigid.
In sleep, when it briefly came out of total exhaustion,
I dreamed I was buried alive - cramped
into the grim coffin beside your lifeless form.
I even fancied our Spirits were bound together
with barbed wire that tore my Soul to shreds.
Still I clung to you, begging you
to take me home with you
into your Spiritual World.

Then, I was comforted by the scratchings.
Throughout the year following your passing
they grew increasingly loud and frequent.
Oh how I wanted to believe
you'd returned to haunt me -
rather than accept the simple truth
that a squirrel had gained access to the attic
from somewhere beneath the eaves
and was raising a family up there.
That squirrel, to a tortured mind,
had become your disembodied Spirit.
I heard your voice in those sounds:
in their speaking for you and their mourning for me,
they seemed to weave me into the fabric of your Being.
And I lay there in your death,
already mentally beneath the frozen earth.

And such unwillingness to let you go
did eventually bring you back to me.
When the despair finally overwhelmed me
and I contemplated ending it all,
you came and held me in your arms
and told me I must go on,
that it wasn't my time yet,
and explained that a seed you'd planted long ago
still had much maturing to do
and had yet to fulfil it's purpose.

Oh the peace those words brought,
and how cleanly they cut through such galling despair!
In that precious moment I finally understood...
you were still closer to me than hands and feet.
Then later that night when I glanced in the mirror
I saw the whole picture - my true Spiritual Heritage -
for the first time.
It was there in stark clarity:
there, in the green of my Father's eyes.

Sunday, 28 August 2016


Here, it was love at first sight: the homecoming
avidly sought throughout a lifetime. Ancient
emotionally charged walls and parapets drew me in,
and now I cannot imagine ever wanting to leave
a place so enigmatic and enchanting.
To most, it appears only atmospheric - harboring the subtle echoes
of long-forgotten triumphs and tragedies.
Our footfalls and voices intrude, but the house remains aloof:
a non-interactive observer, rooted in bygone times.

Exquisite oaken beams are edged with quatrefoils, demi-angels and pierced tracery,
lovingly crafted by expert hands using skills now practically extinct.
But this ornamentation is only a small part of Lytes' timeless allure -
past generations of occupants remain here still.
They impress themselves upon our consciousness,
infusing our minds with a powerful sense of belonging.
These days, as I walk among them, they totally inhabit me.
Then each time I leave, I am hollowed out.

These ethereal beings mingle with the visitors,
their footsteps following well-trodden familiar paths.
The two leather ladies, one either side of the fireplace,
keep watch as the centuries roll by.
Their expressions appear somewhat haughty, possibly disapproving.
It is as if they know, can see into our Souls
and interpret our life-paths and aspirations.
But these have no interest in our trivial wants -
for they are from an age before self became all-absorbing.

A spectral Lady Catherine Neville stands
examining her own portrait that adorns the Oriel chimney piece.
Casual observers walk clean through her. One remarks:
"There is a peculiar chill here. It sends shivers down my spine.
I don't like this place at all. It reminds me of a ghastly sepulchre!"
Such blasphemy shocks me.
My Lytes Cary could never be an abode of the dead.
The truth is in the company I keep - and what I shall someday also be:
an indelible shadow on the stone spiral staircase...

Friday, 12 August 2016


Irresistible urge to plant a kiss
upon those sensuous pallid lips,
while listening to the priest reminisce
about a life in constant eclipse.

Oh why did he die at the very beginning
of the penultimate episode?
I wanted him there to the end and winning
the battle with his cousin - that toad!

From silver spoon that ushered him in
to the Reaper's final swathe,
he's been here buried under my skin -
in his essence I constantly bathe.

So what comes next for Ryan Gage
now Louis is dead and gone?
Wish I had courage to slip backstage
and interrogate his hangers-on.

And what on earth will become of me
now The Musketeers is finished?
Guess I'll be reduced to the epitome
of dreamer with all hope diminished. ;)

I am taking some time off now, as I have just begun a new college course. 
The workload is huge, so I fear I won't be writing much over the next few months.:/
However, I will post and visit you as often as I can.

Wishing you all a great summer (well, the rest of it!).:))
I will miss you all...xoxoxo

Saturday, 6 August 2016


Recollections of all our yesterdays
infuse these cave walls

with fiery emotions that intensify
at each rising of the tide
until the very rock cries out:

I will not remember you!

Oh to fall asleep
in blissful ignorance
of all that has gone before
and in Medusa's gaze
turn to stone: cold, unfeeling

as these chilling winds
that drive the sea into my Soul,

where still you dwell unbidden
in this pink spray: pink,
the colour of my accursed undying love.

Friday, 29 July 2016


Black is what I most remember
about Khan: blackness and all the wild
goose chases he loved to lead me on. I've never walked
the bleak vastness of the moor since then. Black,
not of moonless skies, but a greyish,
almost mongrel black that belied his illustrious
pedigree and made him appear unexceptional
to the untrained eye that might skim over him without the slightest interest
in the mud-encrusted dreadlocks that swamped
his delicate features, nor in the flashes of deep auburn
that framed those soft brown eyes.

I remember him, the most stubborn, mischievous Afghan Hound that ever lived -
the only dog I ever truly called friend - almost as tall as me,
his long legs outrunning mine,
in fact running rings around me at every turn:
bolting off into the distance, impervious to my frantic calls
and genuine fear that I'd never see him again.
Oh how he delighted in trying my patience! Slipping his collar
was a favourite trick, and throwing himself into the river -
just, I swear, to compound the state of his coat and bring double trouble down upon me.
Truly, he could run like the wind when he wanted,
could easily have outrun any prize-winning racehorse.

So many times I'd cling onto his lead with dogged determination,
only for him to pull me along, face down in the mud,
a wicked glint in his eye. Then he'd slip his collar
and take to the hills like a thing demented, hill sheep
darting off in terror at the sight of that
demonic-like black lightening that streaked through their midst.
He left me feeling so useless: a dog owner, owning
what? Those feet, I believed, weren't even under his control.
They appeared to possess a will of their own, and certainly were my Nemesis.

Then, finally, one of these escapades proved to be his undoing.
A car is much less yielding than an ineffectual mistress.
My heart was shattered by the sickening BANG
that sent him spinning into stillness
in an horrific kaleidoscope
of sodden reddish black.

Saturday, 23 July 2016


Orbs emerging from the shadows
in a deserted barn.

How should my senses interpret
their presence? Trick of the light, perhaps?

Diving, spiralling -
surely they own

this very air. I cannot touch
such enigmas: these beings

from another plane who have forsaken
their half-sleep to fly, fly around.

Are they Spirits unclothed?
Bright globes of pure energy, or essences maybe?

Look! One is revealing itself -
facial features, with a goatee beard.

Maybe this is a voyager - even Sir Francis Drake himself,
defying metaphysical law

to return to his beloved home
and negate all known hypotheses:

a sphere of pure consciousness, his white light
fuelled by unfinished business.

Are these non-amnesiac fugitives from the Afterlife?
And why do I behold

this dancing solar system of Souls
who swirl like wind-tossed snow flakes,

hypnotically transfixing me to the spot
here in Buckland Abbey grounds?

The past, momentarily touching the present?
Now they are gone.