Month: February 2019

mariner’s way

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the sun is passing the sign of pisces, a snow moon is sinking into dangerous seas. well, a careful love was never enough for me, and it has been found again – eternity. it’s a spire shell tossed to a sacred well or a sailor’s prayer set to the song of hosanna’s bell it’s a red ribbon tied around a golden bough and the pale yellow crocuses growing in circles now.       mariner’s way is an ancient track that sailors once used to travel across dartmoor. people aren’t quite sure where it was, exactly, but there’s probably some ancient scroll hidden away somewhere dusty, just waiting to be discovered. hosanna’s bell can be found at buckfast abbey, it’s a benedictine monastery, they’re famous for their tonic wine, too. i’ve not tried it. sharing honest writing is very difficult for me, even on this odd public diary/blog.        Advertisements

c. angustifolius (x stellaris)

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  lupercalia. crocus angustifolius (x stellaria). i’ve: – lunaria in a vase – abalone – seven plundered devon shells on a bathroom shelf – an antique map of nevada – and a framed black and white illustration of the aurora, dated 1823. i celebrate my new home, though it’s the size of a stamp, and there’s no pool or gym or balcony like i had in las vegas or los angeles, with a picnic on the floor. brie and raspberries and what’s more, just down the road from me, an elderly lady wearing denim dungarees and a straw hat is planting yellow and purple crocuses, to be part of a flower patch opposite my old primary school. later that day, i introduce myself, and offer my help. — my sister is in love. he, she tells me, is sparry light through stained glass, and sweeter than all the moroccan almonds, it must have been hundreds, pressed into the bottle of essence currently perfuming our mother’s kitchen. the smell is somewhat sickly, which means he’s really …

cormorant, celestia.

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diary 10/02/19: 1- cormorant. celestia. a neighbour’s budding magnolia. fuzz, tepal, whorl. waiting for april, all of them. or early may. well. i am too. petals falling to the pavement on a springtime day. i close the rusty garden gate. it swings shut behind me. 2- the steps to the beach are steep and mossy. approach cautiously. solsbro. seaway. 3- i’m the sort of person that sees signs everywhere. spirit, salt, sailor. a compass on the pavement. sacred, sacred, sacred, and why shouldn’t i believe in magic? 4- the Grand Hotel is grey and ghostly with its tearooms and towers and spiral staircases. disused, mostly. i’ve a fondness for near-forgotten, or faded places. there’s a rainbow over the railway bridge. stories untold. 5- i make it to the beach, and the wind is sweeping seaweed like it’s tumbling russian thistle and i’m watching waves crashing and exploring little rock-pools, i’m looking for crabs, sea glass, oyster shells too (a pearl or a chest or a leviathan or two) but there are three men, better prepared …

daffodils (diary)

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this is the gift of the soul, before the body surrenders, and like sunlight on saltwater, breaks into impossible colours.   07.02.19: a single new bloom wild daffodil grows at the top of vicarage hill. people used to believe that they would appear where once ancient temples, or monasteries, stood. holy ground, tread with reverence. muddy red clay paw prints meander about the pavement. there are mosses and mushrooms, too, growing along the shadowy banks of oak-shaded lanes. i’m thinking about how strange and splendid all of this is, how it’s already beginning to feel like the start of a new season. each day, increasing numbers of snowdrops and crocuses spring into their brief being. i can hear gulls, in the distance, they’ll be gliding around the harbour, over rooftops, between spires. a sea-birds’ choir.  

sunlight, transformed.

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diary 04.02.19   i am two hours out of london, now my train is speeding faster, now and the horizon stretches out vaster than it has before. there are rolling meadows, ancient hedgerows, mythical moors and snow-tinged distant hilltop tors. this is our inherited land. this is not at all what we had planned, but there are shipwrecked sunken boats and silver tidal sands shifting and settling like swept in stardust. last night, it stormed. i’ve got to trust that all of this is sunlight, transformed.

sundial or sea-bird (diary)

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a pearl grey propitious first february morning and i’ve faith as a sundial or a sea-bird’s wing and like me, the ivy leaves are all shivering and there are silver bell snowdrops, each will ring in the spring.     it is imbolc, brigid’s day,  candlemas, a traditional beginning of spring, and i’m wearing inherited pearls and reading about stellaria holostea. i am the ‘flower of sorrow’ so they say no glory can i borrow from the May yet, starlike, mid the green my fragile flowers are seen so faith her steadfast eye lifts to the sky it’s a second hand charity shop book on plant lore, illustrated by rosemary wise and written by josephine addison. i’ve also a very old-fashioned book on traditional british cooking, and it’s just fantastic. summer pudding, fisherman’s stew, sand cakes, and stilton mousse (which sounds awful, in my opinion). tomorrow, i’m to finish my packing for the ukraine: – bobble hat, two – camera, two – lenses, three – impractical phrases scribbled on a piece of paper, three – …