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freya (diary)

it’s a stormy sunday early afternoon, and i am walking around moseley park and pool. skeleton leaf veins, looking like the finest antique lace, are catching raindrops, suspended glass spheres or kaleidoscopic crystal balls, colour captured. and there are tracing paper petals too, wild pear blossom, cherry plum, blackthorn.

i’ve got muddy knees, a soaked through coat, and am taking shelter from the (ever increasing in strength) rain under two very tall, and leafy even in the winter, trees. freya is almost here. later, when i’m home, and warm, and dry, i’ll light a few candles, the french ones, scented bluebell, and i’ll sit at my piano and listen to her as she pulls at branches, frees a tile or two from a neighbour’s roof, i think it’s possible that nature speaks only the truth.

1 Comment

  1. and further only truth: prophecy in those crystal balls! and Freja was with you in the forest before Freya arrived—Gefn, giver of joy and happiness, the Storm must have been that.

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