Possible

The stars can’t rearrange themselves in the sky
but we can travel.
We can always change our view.

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Faded Charts

Perhaps it isn’t wise to love a sailor.
Good things sweep away in summer storms
but the tides are unpredictable
and times have changing patterns
when the breezes shift.
I left my compass in the cupboard
wrapped in faded charts
and i couldn’t see the stars.
I should have thought before I lifted anchor.
I should have thought before we left the land.
I can only tell you that I’m sorry
that I had to loose your hand.

Home

The river always pulled this way,
quiet in its flowing.
I followed close
but had no way of knowing.
I only had a longing,
undefined, unsatisfied,
a well too deep to fathom.
I bowed my head in sorrow.

But life is strange.
The river curved and flowed away.
I could only follow.
It lead me to a pasture.
The waters pooled.
The stars, reflected,
shifted,
a secret, silent mirror.

When night was at its darkest,
I made a lonely sojourn here,
So tired from this journey.

I lit a fire.
It flamed
It burned.
I built it to a beacon.
You saw it where you wandered.

Home was never truly home
until you came to share it.
The light was never quite so bright
nor the fire so strong
until you sat beside me.
And now each night
I sit with you
and count my lucky stars

Lucky Boy.

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings,
But the doors folded inward
And never lead out.
I ask you, my friends,
What was that all about?

The boy on his doorstep,
Had flowers in his hat.
He sat on the doorstep
And talked to the cat.
The cat said his fortune
Lay out in the fields.
The boy on the doorstep
Was happy with that.

The boy wandered off
In search of a wood.
He whistled and sang
As he went on his way.
His only thought was
‘What a fine day!’
When he was hungry
The berries were good.
He never did anything
Quite as he should.

When the night fell upon him
He looked at the stars
They hung high above him,
Over his bed,
Where he curled himself up,
Under a tree
And slept the sleep, of the just
And the dead.

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings.
But the boy, in the morning,
Woke up with the lark.
He shook off the dewdrops
And sprouted fine wings.
Lucky is he who whistles and sings.

Homespun Twaddle

a fae should never wear feathers
they would float much too far off the ground
they’d soon blow away and might not get back
that’s what the old wives say

*****

don’t drag people down rabbit holes
until you’ve been there and back by yourself

*****

meddling with magic has unforeseen results
thinking you’re clever is the act of a fool
wizards and chess masters think they see all
but they have no control of the stars

*****

if you live in stone houses
don’t cast the first glass
we are all far too fragile for that
looking tough never works
when you’re shattered
false dignity makes it worse

*****

I am not wise
I’m an idiot
So I never bother with fools

Apples and Bees

I would lie beneath the trees
And dream the hours away, in heat
And listen to the hum of bees

The apples tumble at my feet
Full of warmth and summer sun
Dripping juice so ripe and sweet

How smooth this nectar on the tongue!
I steep my sense in joy, replete
And feel that I am ever young

The sun will sink, the evening comes
As the hourglass, tireless, runs
But I will stay here, in the night,
To look up to the endless stars,
Rotating glimmers fill my sight

Three Chains

the iron chain is heavy
a burden on my neck
it binds me to an ancient path
made of blood and bones
the bondage of the tribe
it binds me to my roots
when the storms arise

the chain of jade is mystery
cool green glades
where water drips
into a silent lake
in quiet meditation
alone
i sit
i wait

until the sparkling silver chain
leads me through the dark
it captures midnight stars
with flashing moonlit sparkles
that illuminate my heart
and lead my feet away
along the magic path

The Rocking Stone

On Cadair Idris, close by to the bottomless lake of Llyn Cau, I spent the night on a Rocking Stone, with a youthful desire in my heart, to be a Poet Bard. Legend has it that a night on Cadair’s cold flank gives the curse of madness, or the blessings of Seer or Bard. I knew the risk to my mind and the risks of the rocking stone, the balancing of the stone, a balance to be held on a dark night, high up and all alone. I sat and prayed in silence to the moon and stars above, looking up with eyes wide open, alert to the mountain, the rock and the wind that blew in that desolate spot.

The night was long. I came down with the dawn as nothing; an empty vessel waiting to be filled. No-one, nothing at all. Aware that I was very small.

Ten years later, or was it five, and does it matter how old I was, I spent the night on a rock atop a Tor, looking out across a wide open remote moor. I saw the creatures of the night as they scurried about and eyes shining and blinking in the dark. I heard the song of the wind through the rocks. Nothing more. It was enough.

The night was long. I came down feeling I belonged to something though I knew not what. I became a journey begun.

The night I spent on the cliff edge where the wind sings in the grass above granite rock, the waves beat on the rocks below and seven hours became one. Time slowed, or the stars and the moon sped by, who can tell which, the night I sat high on the cliff edge, the moon path spread across the sea, glimmering on water, reaching out to the a far horizon.

The stars, with the moon at the centre of all, moved in a slow ballet of curved motion across the sky, the constellations shone out from the web of night, a rotation eternal, a moving wheel. Beneath me the tide rolled in an out, fast. Time did not stop, it slowed or the world sped up while beauty shone out high above.

Seven hours became one.

If I can, by a shift of my mind, alter seven hours to one could I change one hour to seven and make life longer or can I pull seven hours into one? What is time but illusion? The days of a child are long, a summer an eternity. Seven hours could easily be as seven decades to a shorter lived creature than me. Does a butterfly live six score years and ten in so short a span as a day.

The earth is a rocking stone held in place by the moon while the sun brings it life. Time does not exist. Life and death is all we have and are but we are not bound in time.

We are all finely balanced on the stone. We either fall off or we balance.

This is all I have learned on the Rocking Stone. This is not the end of my journey, a journey I make alone.