Saturday 22 August 2020



Wild, bleak moorland -
the wind strangling me with my own hair,
gagging my voice; and the the distant hills
glowing in a patch of moving sunlight, like disembodied Souls
flitting across the horizon.

I tasted the singularity of the heather,
it's woody stalks,
the incense scent of it's purple flowers.
They had a prophetic quality, a great poignancy
that was exquisite, almost torture.

There was only one proper path.
Muddy, stony,
it led to the bridge over the stream.
And it was dangerously exposed out there -
anything moving could be seen for miles,

and a Red Kite possesses telescopic vision.
The agonized shriek  
sent a spike of ice through my veins.
The flapping of great wings was barely audible
as it swooped and swallowed the lizard whole.

My footfalls hastened onward.
I felt the unevenness underfoot,
and an inward stab of empathy.
How it stung me, that little death.
A hungry Kite. A meal without a plate.

But I, too, had recently eaten - such hypocrisy!
Another's life force ingested,
too deep inside now to rectify. It was my teeth
that had torn into a chicken's flesh,
albeit killed by an unknown predator.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for your kind messages of comfort and support. I appreciate them so very much. I will visit you all again as soon as I can...
Please stay safe and happy😊 xxxxxx

Friday 14 August 2020


Morgana, my Muse, what ill-conceived
petulant or thoughtless act -
what secret of sorcery did you keep
from the Priest at my christening, that
was a blatant act of blasphemy,
when the Holy Water on my brow
burned and sizzled into vapour,
while all those present gasped?

Morgana, who intrigued me with stories
of Avalon - that legendary Otherworld
peopled with Priestesses, Sirens and other
disquieting beings. I wondered if they were your sisters,
whether it was you who'd invoked
those pale-robed hooded women
who nightly circled my girlhood bed
while chanting in an unfamiliar tongue.

In that harsh winter, when the snow
fell three feet deep and broke all records
and my Father had to dig us out, you lit
a candle and called upon Ariadne.*
After that all hell broke loose:
the spiders awoke from their hibernation
and prowled the dark recesses of our house.
Terrified, I was convinced they had come for my Soul.

Once, beneath a Midsummer full moon
I glimpsed you dancing, white-robed, in the garden
while humming to yourself a haunting tune.
I was mesmerized, transfixed in my window.
You resembled a Goddess, I thought,
all ethereal in the silvery moonlight
as you spiralled faster and faster, leaving me breathless.
Then a cloud obscured the moon and you vanished.

I remember holidaying once in North Wales,
when you presented me with a map of the region
and pointed out to me all the lakes and springs.
Well, you spent the entire week dragging me
across the breadth of Snowdonia: hours and hours
over rough and dangerous terrain - but for what?
It's vital that you learn from the land, you said,
Her savage nature is mirrored within you.

One morning at three o'clock I saw you, Morgana,
standing before me at the foot of a moonbeam,
in a pool of white light that filled my room
with a million sparkles of Angel dust
that I just knew couldn't possibly be earthly.
And yet, they collected like snowflakes
in my hair, on my pyjamas and my quilt. Reach out!
It was then that I realised I was more than just flesh and blood.

Every moment now, wherever I go
they shadow me - Seven of the Avalonian Nine,
their faces obscured within oversized hoods,
with robes shimmering from a setting sun
that never goes down nor rolls into dawn.
For this is the timeless realm you initiated me into:
like Priestess, the Neophyte - my destiny
is to uphold the Traditions of Avalon.

* Ariadne is the Druidic Weaver Goddess.

Thursday 6 August 2020


Scattered like skittles beneath full moon,
these whisky-swigging girls foul-mouthed curse
the Royal Oak landlord who threw them out
and left them in the gutter squirming like maggots.

Laddered tights and bloodied knees,
brains addled - what, why, how did they get here?
And what is it that stirs up such galling angst
that drenches them now in bitter tears?

Escaping the lockdown to live it up
without any conscience - why should they care
if tonight's binge on alcohol and rebellion
kills more of long as they survive?