Hearts

We are intertwined. This mercy-less and mercy-full dance of the ages. We are lovers. Forever entwined. The Muddied trampled Heart. Love endures. Love nerer dies. Love may remain silent witness for a while, then will rise again. Ever treading the Mill. Love is all, Love is without all. Love will concour all. The endless dance of submission and succession. Dance the dance of the wounded hearts.

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Tread Softly

Come, come, I’m waiting for you to come.
Where footsteps softly fall, upon moss covered paths, come, come.

When twilight softly falls, you can hear my call, come, come.

When pale moonlight falls, softly lights up the night, come, come.

I wait in the wood, sorely misunderstood, come, come.

But softly. Softly your footsteps must fall, least you will no longer hear my call. And I will wait in the wood, lonely and sorely misunderstood. For you no longer come.

Images: Krist Mort

The Lady Of The Snows

The lady of the snows, she comes and she goes, as the wind blows. She gives beauty to repose, captures hearts in her throse, takes souls as she goes. The Lady of the snows.

Thrice she knocks on the door, and where Bridgid’s lamp ever glows, all is well. For she comes, and she goes. And Bridgid’s lamp ever glows.

Beauty in her own right. Tis her way and her might.

Lady of the Snows.

England.

The spirits of place are very slow to reveal themselves to me here. Reluctant, wary, non trusting, not in good relationship with humanity; and it’s not surprising really. The relentless trampling of feet. The woodland path is littered with rubbish. The constant background hum of traffic. A manner in the people that has little regard for the subtleties of nature. They don’t for a moment concider that they share this space and are privileged to do so. Rather believing themselves to be the only living beings here. This is what the place is telling me. And I feel it. What is interesting to observe is natures response to being over farmed and wild places being pushed to the very brink of existance. Very, very few natural places left today where the wildlife, flora and fauna can grow freely. Can just *be*. And what I notice happens in the pockets that are, these areas are covered with protective bramble thorn plants which allow no wandering human access. It is like nature’s way of saying “keep out”. The brambles arch over the land, protecting the wildlife and plants that exist underneath its protective roof. A defensive response to our intrusion and of our posession of so much of the land for ourselves, for farming or building. And in our recreation, leaving a thick, slimy boggy, overtrodden, litter ridden path in our wake. Today though, after time in the woods, for the first time in a long time, I felt my nose clearing. My body clearing. I could smell nature again. Oddly enough but true, since coming down here I have lost the subtler sense of smell. Due to the constant breathing in of fumes and pollution I suppose. Today though, I closed my eyes and felt myself melt into the woodland around me and all my sences came alive. It was beautiful! I have been out and about in my free time, but down here the muse had left me. My creativity zapped to nothing! My own adjustment to the frenzied pace and obsurdity of modern day England had left me empty and drained for a while. I have been bereft of Scotland’s beauty, finding my own self a dessolate, passionless place down here. Slowly, slowly though, the land is coming alive again. Both in the stirring of spring, the quickening, but also to my senses. The land is slowly opening itself up and revealing itself. If I can find a quiet enough space to listen to it, barely audible under the ugly raucous of modernity that is. And I pray, that today was a turn in a more creative direction.