The Ruins

I would that we had these winds of dream to command. I would, now that I am far from it, that this night at least I might pass over Iona, and hear the sea-doves by the ruins making their sweet mournful croon of peace, and lift, as a shadow gathering phantom flowers, the pale orchis by the lapwing’s nest.

And truly enough the little island was for long given over to the sea-wind, whose mournful chant even now fills the ruins where once the monks sang matins and evensong.

– Fiona Macleod

Simply Treading The Autumnal

The Ancestors

While enjoying a lazy Sunday with the company of a candle flame burning, a bottle of deep red wine, some chilling ambient music and Jose Leitao’s translated work of the Bibliotheca Valenciana, we mustn’t discount the Dead, for:

The companie of the dead I should be said, should never go unheeded. For the company of the dead is better than bread and there when most needed.