Christmas gifts

Hopes and dreams are harder to box as you get older. The material gifts that delight us as children no longer hold sway but rather than feel disappointed by unrequited generosity I have decided to accept the gifts that have been given to me this season of a less tangible kind and cherish them for what they are. I hope you have all been equally blessed.

My children recognising for the first time the joy of giving gifts of their own and not just receiving.
The laughter of loved ones
A gathering of friends
The sharing of a new experience
My children holding hands, loving one another.
An unsolicited hug, just because.
Solving a puzzle together.
The aroma of oranges, of pine resin, of cloves and spices.
The waxing and waning of a candle flame.
The freedom to walk in beautiful countryside.
The kiss of the sun on my face and the glow of a full moon.
Time to sit by the fire and enjoy the purr of a cat.

As we move towards a new year and talk turns to resolutions, rather than denying myself some trifling thing I resolve to hold these moments dear, recognise them when they come and accept them for what they are...the glue that helps hold us together in the tougher times, if only we remember them.

Happy Christmas all and a wonder-filled New Year.

Madame de Voyant

The Seer
        " Bonjour ma chere. Ne juge pas jeuness I like my leaves mulled, infused with whisky, you know, helps me find my way in le dark. Maman de le bois is my name, or 'de boire' quand vous preferez!" She chuckled. "Why do you look perplexed? I am friend of wood nymphs, ghouls and fireflies. I commune avec les animaux de bois et des compagne. Should you fear me Evangeline? Le darkness? Non. Your zebedee imaginings are la raison pour votre unease. You are looking for your Prince Charming non? Cherche ma cherie, cherche all of your life and all lanes will lead you here. I know where your frog Prince can be found. Come forward my angel, bring me your gold, your charms. Place your pieces of eight in my China crucible and I will wash you in flames, make your mind spin in dark spaces, remake your memories of days  known and unknown. You will dance on firefly wings in glowing moonlight, swim across space and hours waving your limbs like a bug in a web. And yes, you will find him, your Navine. And where will your sardonic brow be ce jour la? Nowhere. You will believe, and you will give me praise.

Evangeline
      I used to be so brave. What happened to that bravado, did it evaporate with childhood? I wouldn't boo a goose in these dark times. Maman de le Bois offered me salvation, an escape from the doubt and darkness of cupboards whispering secrets. She called me angel, but I was no angel, I knew that. But sure as night followed the gloaming all maidens deserve happiness in the end don't we? So here I stood in front of this wizened goddess of the woods willing to follow her instruction.
        I looked at the strange shaped coin receptacle Maman de le Bois held out to me. It was a tea cup and tea pot melded together, neither one thing nor the other and wondered what strange curse was upon it. I placed a golden feather charm into the china and Maman de le Bois gave me a blessing.
       "The peace of the Lord be with us all child. The kindness shown here has been noted in the annals of the world. Let me bathe in the fire of voices and a vision will come." I  drank the mulled potion she offered me and let thoughts gallop,loose-reined through wild spaces until I found a vision swimming in its place. It swam over the swamp water dressed in the glow of fireflies, a smell of damp and spice muddling the image. There was no straight answer, no one clear vision but a stream of suggestion; a house with roses round the door, me on my horse with a quart of beer, sleeping under the trees, nectar dripping from them like rain; sprites and fairies tugging at my hair, mermaids splashing among the stars dancing with dashing white Sergeants. I woke on a woven willow bed  thatched with swan's feathers and was perplexed.
        "Did you see the path Evangeline?"
        "I saw something, but I don't what to think, where to start."
        "Following one foot in front of another is a good beginning."
        "But how will I find the house?"
        "It will come forth as it did in the dream." I looked at Mamon de le Bois confused.
        "But for that I would need the potion. How else can I summon it?"
        "Fear not doubting angel I will be there forever now in the space between les oreilles."

The Seer
         "It was a spiced Janvier when ma petite jeuness  came to me, seeking her prince, her 'happy ever after'. Yes, she was a hungry centipede, a heart that can never be satisfied. I did for her what any seer is want to do: I took her payment and faced the fire, bathed in the heat of understanding so that she, through me, saw into the unknown to search for her happy ending. It is never enough though for these jeune femme, they want too much. Ha. I used to eat hedgehogs and stinging spinach when I was that age. I used to drink whisky from the spout of a teapot covered in roses and berries. Now I am fortunes mistress, invited out once a year to the office party to have my way with Adam. The poor dear never deserved to be ignored you know, he was quite 'charmant'. No. It is work work work for me, something for every stranger that crosses my path, never is it my time to shine. Who makes my wishes come true? She was satisfied though, ma petite jeuness, after her mix of visions. She may go on now and find peace, convinced she will find her Navine. Maybe I too may find peace in the end.

Notes

This story was written during a writing group. Each section was written in about 10-15minutes and we were tasked with include particular words and feed back from other writers in the group. We also had a letter chosen at random that we were not allowed to use, one for each of the three sections. So, just out of interest, did you notice anything unusual?
Oh, and to all native French speaker, my profound apologies for spelling and grammatical errors, I do not have the priviledge to be fluent in your beautiful language.

Feedback appreciated as always.

Magical Ring

       I started out in the landscape's cups and valleys, shrouded in a cloak of morning mystery. The postman had already got well underway, spreading his Santa's bag of parcels and cards. I could see his slow progress, a red bug crawling the meandering contours of the distant hillside. I climbed further up, further into the bowl of the valley, it's arms reaching around both sides of me in an earthen embrace. I left behind the meadow grass glittering with ice crystals  waiting to melt in the weak solstice sunrise and let my feet follow the mud path into the woodland.
       A melange of broken semi-skeletal leaves were strewn at my feet, dulled from their original autumnal passions but decorated with a tracery of frost. Every so often a crème brûlée crunch would cut the stillness as my foot broke through the iced corrugations of the path sending skittering shards into disarray, a jagged spiders web of ice telling where I had been.
     As I progressed further along the path a figure appeared from the camouflage of moss and branches on the track ahead. He was so well camouflaged that he was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wood in this crepuscular light. A trapper's hat was firmly fixed on his head and a worn out waxed long coat was wrapped loosely about him. There was no camera or binoculars about his neck. Normally it was a bird watcher or maybe a farmer if I came across people at that hour.maybe he was a dog walker. I looked at the figure again. He appeared to be leaning forward, slightly hunched, with one hand clutched in a downward  claw, as if he had been holding a ball or something, and it had been stolen from him. Instinctively I slowed my pace, scanned the woods for a dog  but still could not see one. Everything was still, even the birds had ceased their early chatter. Something made me stop then; a dip in the temperature, a solidity to the air. I looked again at the figure, closer to me now.  I thought it odd that he had not moved at all, had not turned to nod or greet me.
      "Morning," I tried experimentally. No reaction. Perhaps he was deaf. I didn't want to startle him so moved further forward, away from his peripheral vision. His face was pale and deeply creased, weathered with age, deep set eyes lurked in the shadow of bushy eyebrows and a crooked nose. An expression: surprise and anger, was frozen on his face. I shivered, my teeth chattering, feeling the intense cold penetrating my warm layers of clothing. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until I let it out and a steam of condensation fogged the air in front of me. But this man was not creating breath clouds at all. It hit me with a rush of adrenalin: oh, my God, he's not breathing. I pulled my gloves away from my fingers, holdings the back of  my hand up to his mouth and nose and spoke urgently,
      "Hello? Sir, are you alright?" No breath, not even a blink. I pulled my hand away and reached for the phone in my pocket, ready to call for help. But what should I say? I didn't know what had happened. I looked about and noticed his clothes shimmering. The coat in particular seemed to glisten, and the waistcoat and scarf beneath. Instead of my phone I found myself reaching out to touch the material. It was stiff with cold. Beyond stiff really, it seemed frozen solid glittering with frost, a suit of lights. The clothes seemed rather old fashioned up close;  a linen shirt with no buttons, the waistcoat roughly cut in worn leather. His shoes were simply cut, hand stitched leather and the trousers were split legged, felted wool tethered by a simple belt at the waist.
Jack Frost.
The name came to me from nowhere.
      "But that's a fairy tale" I scoffed at myself. "It can't be." And yet there was no sign of injury. The man had not collapsed from a stroke. This figure, standing stock still in the cold dawn, glittering with magic, defied logic. He appeared to be as old as the hills themselves. But surely that was impossible. Even if it was Jack Frost, how had he come to be here, frozen stiff, caught in his own trap?
       I could hear the gentle burbling song of the brook still flowing nearby. It seemed unaffected by what ever curse held Jack Frost to account? But as I looked in the direction of the river I saw on the ground a trail of golden grains, yellow sand on top of the mud. My curiosity piqued, I bent to touch the grains and found them to be warm. I followed its morse code line first with my eyes and then with my feet towards the river. It was  broken in places, puddled in others, as if someone had been carrying a leaking bag of sand and had paused. At the brook it changed directions going upstream towards the waterfall. I followed it to the head of the valley. Rocks were split asunder here and smoothed by the mysteries of time. A mixology of tumbled trees splintered like broken bones sat in company with raw earth and jagged roots, strings of moss and fern. Some of the boulders were like giant stone marbles lying half submerged in the pool at the foot of the waterfall's curtain. But away from the fierce frothing of the deep plunge pool there were smaller boulders, a way across, a path of stepping stones, and on each there was a hint of golden sand. I crossed the slippery stones with care and carried on up the bank, the wayside littered with emerging flowers of a species I had never seen before.
           As I followed the path the flowers seemed to multiply and I was soon surrounded. It seemed in a space of a few metres I had walked from winter to spring and into summer. Surrounded by the heavenly scent I walked further until the trees too came into bloom; the new lace of lime coloured beech leaves curtaining the path. And then I came upon the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia in a shallow dell. She was sitting on a tree stump, a small mirror in her hand, crying rainbow tears quietly into the silk folds of her turquoise kurtah. She looked like a study of a young lady who had learned not to be noticed. I was unsure whether to stay or slip away. Could she even be real? Questions flooded my mind and I found I could not leave without satisfying my curiosity.
       "Are you real?" I asked tentatively. She looked up startled, a curtain of loose dark curls framing her burnished almond eyes, wide open, deep as black holes in space.
       "For certain I am real. Can you not see me with your own eyes?" She sounded put out.
       "Yes I can. But, forgive me, I am not sure I trust them. There has been a lot of magic in the world this morning. Why are you crying?"    
       "Who are you?" She asked ignoring my question.
      "I live here. I- I think I followed your trail to this place. The sand? Maybe it was in your gown. And the flowers. Did you make the flowers grow? We don't usually have many flowers in the winter."
      "You ask many questions. Will you tell me your name?"
      "Sorry, I'm Emille, my family live just down the valley, all seven of us. I come here to be alone sometimes. What is your name? Where did you come from?"
Seemingly satisfied she wiped her tears and stood to curtsy.
      "I am Princess Nasmina, daughter to the Shah of Persia. I am the shortest of my Father's many daughters, the most overlooked. My Father was displeased with me for learning the Jin's Magic. He shouted at me, told me that he would never find me a husband if I continued to be so wilful. I was upset for displeasing him and ran away. But as I ran the Jin's seeing eye fell from my sirwal pocket and smashed at my feet. I was sucked through time and space and transported here.
        "A man dressed in a suit of lights found me. He told me he was the King of Winter and would make me his Queen, but he was cold inside and out and I refused to go with him."
        "Jack Frost," I said " I'm not sure he is a King exactly but he certainly knows about the cold."
        "I could see he was greedy for my magic. He bound my wrists with trailing Ivy and forced me to go with him. He pulled me on until the dawn but then said we must both become invisible and ride the wind. He threw me to the floor and began to chant an ancient rhyme:
'Cold of night make cold the day,
Death upon me if I stay.
From the North winds I shall spy
In the cracks 'tween Earth and sky'
        "As he chanted the air around him shimmered and cracked with cold. I was very frightened, but then I remembered the Jin's magic mirror. He had given it to me as a talisman against evil and I knew I must use it to protect myself. As I pulled it free of my sirwal the King of Winter- what did you call him Jack Frost? -He saw that I had something in my hand and went to grab me,  but in doing so he looked in the mirror and his own magic rebounded on him. It must have been the ice in his heart that consumed him and he turned into frozen form.
        "I ran away as fast as I could. But how can I run when I do not know which way to go? My only hope is to rely on the kindness of strangers."
        She began to cry again then and my heart went out to her. I so badly wanted to make her feel less frightened.  I had no idea if she knew about the celebration of Christmas but I did. I knew it was a time of goodwill, a time to be with those you love and a time to help those in need.
      "Tell, me, is there anything I can do Princess?"
She thought for a moment and then looked at the Hazel switch in my hand.
      "Will you make me a gift of that wood?"
      "Of course," I said, handing it to her, " but I don't see how that will help."
      "You will."
She bent the hazel into a circle, the wood blossoming beneath her hand into a berry wreath in all its bright glory, the two ends knitting together into an eternal loop. She placed the coronet on her head and made a deep curtsy.
      "Thank you, Emille. What a beautiful gift you have given."
      "But it was just a stick"
      "Yes, it was, but the kindness in your thoughts made it blossom into something quite spectacular, wouldn't you agree?"  I smiled and returned he curtsy a little awkwardly, feeling embarrassed.  "I have nothing to give you in return Emille," she said, "but I can grant you one wish."
A wish! What would you wish for: toys, games, clothes? I thought and thought. I wanted something that would last a life time. I knew that making a difference to someone's life would make me happy far longer than things I would grow out of and finally I realised what I must wish for.
      "I've made up my mind Princess. No one should be lost and alone, especially at Christmas. I wish for you to go home to your family."
       At that moment the sun's rays broke over the top of the dell flooding the hollow with golden light. I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the glare and saw the air waver around the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia, like a heat haze, and heard her whisper her thanks, before I was forced to look away. A moment later and the dell was filled with warmth but the princess was gone.
Where she had stood by the tree stump lay the berry wreath on the ground. I picked it up and sat on the stump turning my face to the sun. I smiled with the pleasure of knowing my wish had brought a family together again at Christmas and imagined the joy that would be shared at her homecoming.Later, as I walked back through the woods there was no sign of Jack Frost. It seemed he too had been released from the Jin's magic when the princess returned home. I took the wreath with me and placed it on the windowsill at home for all to see.
       Many years have passed since that solstice in the woods when I was just a young girl. Now I have a family of my own. The berry wreath sits at the heart of my family table as fresh as the day it was made, a symbol of giving and of the gathering of loved ones, a symbol of rebirth and hope for the year to come.

Yurtopia

       Deep in the chilterns surrounded by a patchwork of undulating countryside there is a Mongolian yurt, squatting in a field. Open up one of the pair of little wooden door and squeeze inside away from the cold and rain and you find yourself in a perfect haven of warmth. There is something deeply comforting about being in a canvas space; the walls still breathe with the wind, canvas edges snapping and trilling against each other stiffly, the rain patters like fairy fingers of a drum, the cold goes on snarling and biting and yet you are insulated from its sharp edges, womb-like.
       The Yurt is clean and homely, furnished with pine and farm harvesting boxes. Some are stacked on their side as display units for wares on sale, others hold napkins, jars of cutlery and baked goods. Another table holds the till, a necessity of any business, almost hidden by a selection of tempting cakes. Before ordering at this diminutive counter you must decide where to sit. Do you choose a table close to the books and magazines held in a rack? Close to the warmth of the wood burning fire perhaps? Or do you choose a cosy corner or position yourself under the light of the central oculus? All are equally welcoming.
      The furniture is delightful, distressed  painted chairs in wedgewood blues and greens with wax scrubbed pine tables, a hedgerow arrangement at the centre of each. Once seated you can admire the construction of this cocoon, the curve of the upright spars, the warmth of the natural wood still glowing with life. The spokes of a giant cartwheel span out from the oculus backed with deep red felt insulating cloth to the trellised walls supporting the roof. It is December and the hallowe'en spiders webs and pumpkins have been replaced with trailing Ivy and fairy lights, and willow stars wrapped in twine and tinsel strands twirl slowly on their fixings.
     The menu is simple, homely, local and tempting and when you finally decide what to indulge in, anything from a cup of tea to brunch, it arrives on touching shabby chic mismatched china giving a sense that it is all run by a little girl playing with her grandmothers old tea sets and serving her dolls, yet with delicious aromas and beautiful attention to detail, right down to the tiny metal watering cans that are used to serve the sugar in.

     If this seems like your sort of place do feel free to comment and I'll let you know where it is....but I think some of you may already know!

Horoscope

It is measured in a handspan across the heavens. A mini ruler, Mercury, a tyrant among the galaxies is bent on war and must be brought to heal by the twelve star groups. Gemini stands back to back with her sister and they call to their brethren, a call for balance and peace through a war of Titans . Orion and Sagittarius will lead the vanguard with Libra assessing the advance with analytical prowess. Dexterous Scorpio will wield sword and axe and bow, simultaneously firing flaming arrows into the red mists of Mars and ringing hammer blows that will vibrate across the blackness of space. Leo will pounce on Mars and toy mercilessly with the mini ruler as with a mouse. They will not bend  to his discriminating demands, each wanting instead the freedom of the heavens for all eternity, to live with prudence and justice.
And when the war is done and the anger spent they will celebrate with a victory feast. The Stars will put on their lustre and dance under aurora's skirts while Mars dips his head to the horizon. Peace will be restored and we will weigh our souls in feathers to the end of time.

Bonfire

        My view of you, skewed by experience and the dark slanted line of the bonfire structure growing between us, did not change, mangled by dusks imaginings. To everyone else you were a curmudgeonly old battler but not to me, I knew it was just a crust, a gruff exterior,the grit of crumbs on a piece of warm buttered toast. Other people, they didn't know how to approach you, didn't know what to say to disguise their own embarrassment at your misfortunes. They had not figured it out, the secret; that it wasn't about what you said but whether you were able to just be, listen for the wisdom and peace. There is communion in being with you, and even standing out here in the rain with you, silently, I could see there were angels in the margin of your notebook. There is far more to you than the eye can see, rays of sunshine at the heart of you. Already the tensions that had been spilling out of me, the frustrations of butting heads with my peers, literally and figuratively, as I kicked uselessly at the wood when I arrived, were beginning to slip away.
       You always had a way to occupy my idle hands, my idle thoughts, and if I waited long enough you always instructed me.
       "Rub off your sharp edges and fit in. Take time to find the right angle to approach someone.  I know you have it in you, you're here aren't you." And there it was, a beacon of hope in the murk, a way forward. I was not required to reply, explain myself, just build the bonfire with you and consider the truth. You continued changing gear imperceptibly. "Triangular shapes make the most stable structures, wide and solid at the base. You want to make sure that the fire falls in on itself, not over you."
        I watched the angles of the mangled branches knit together in a loose weave, manoeuvring them into relationship with one another and went to collect more of the brushwood from the side of the pond. The rain had stopped now, as you said it would, and feathered flies flew into the stillness of the water's tension, landing in the last rays of sun as it peeked from behind the sluggish grey clouds. The angle of the sun was so low that it lent the flies halos even before they were gobbled by the fish. I stood there a moment contemplating what had passed. The summer seemed so long ago now, the days of skinny dipping and paddling, of stolen kisses behind the reeds, of laughter and splashing, days where the pond would daily be fed with wet swimming costumes and hot limbs. It would come round again, I knew it would, as sure as the freckles on my nose, but it would not be the same. Innocence can only be lost once. Now the water was a shadow in which temptation swims.
      I turned back and watched your elongated alter ego angled over the grass as you bent to strike a match. It began with smouldering and dry grass turning to glinting strands of tinsel and then the timber caught; a blister of heat and fire and life in the dark, a glow of ethereal mathematics, of fortune and physics. And there you stood, head bowed with age, arthritic knotted hands mangled together on the fork handle, your secret joy dancing in the waxing lights of it.

Starting out

Back at the beginning, brimful of grace and simplicity. Have a cup of tea, consider.
Here comes the polish of puberty: potential unfulfilled.
See the song lines imprint in the patina of crackling glaze  marked with tannins.  Follow the fault lines to their conclusion.
Step forth bravely, trespass, travel. Shed your reptilian skin and find chameleon promise, embrace fluctuations of colour and tone. You are a giant among men. Skip stones across new horizons, hurl boulders into ancient wells and listen to the resonance of the resulting 'gallolop'.
Learn. The door to knowledge is ever open but you must choose to continue your quest. Become a student of the universe if not universities. Remain open to the rhyme and meter of nature of planets, stars, galaxies.
Look also within. Plough the furrows of your imagination to the ferny darkness of its corners, bathe in creativity.
Follow your compass heading from Cancer to Capricorn. Explore the latitudes of ancient civilisations. Shamen will instruct you, medicine men, spirits summoned from the forest.  Enrich your memories with mountains and oceans, Islands and currents for the time will come when you are washed up, shipwrecked.
You will sit at the end of your time in The Red Lion and rejoice that the forgotten road was one that you travelled. It will nourish you to the end.  Others may see you drinking tea from a cracked teacup, but you will know the value of each fault line in the glaze, each path that was followed. The aroma of peony, darjeeling, chrysanthemum, will stir olfactory senses to a dancing mirage of memories and you will know that you have lived a nourished existence.

An Autumn Morning

         Geese honk unseen as they coral above a thick quilt of grey clouds, the urge to migrate stronger than gravity. Cobwebs are lightly misted with opals of dew and  the scent of humus decay, fermenting fallen fruit and smouldering garden bonfires lace the air. Early sun filters through the web of branches, laid increasingly bare by the strong gusts of wind, their tangled skeletal complications showing Mother Nature to be a master sculptor. Here and there a scattering of leaves still cling to the trees like golden coins, in suspense, waiting to join the party, abandoned by their brethren. The Fallen swirl in eddies of current, moving together then apart, sighing, a flock of starlings in motion, in communion with a greater power; lovers in the heat of passion. Here and there they lie in spent drifts, slumped, exhausted, damp, entwined, content to know they have given life and love their all, and in time the seasons will make their mark, revealing a new simplicity of beauty within, an intricate tracery of arteries and veins.
        A desire grows in me and I begin to drag my feet in lazy sideways arcs, pooling a collection of leaves, uncovering the green of the grass, the dark smears of worm casts beneath, until I have a mound of russet and gold and brown. I perform a salutation to the sun, the earth. It is deep and satisfying. I feel the energy, the connection with the season, gratitude grows within my wide embrace, then, clawing my fingers I pull my hands together catching the leaves in a great congregation. I lift them as joy blossoms at my centre and hurl them into the air, twirling arms outstretched, face to the heavens one word escaping my lips "confetti!" The riches fall from heaven in a whispered prayer and I receive an evangelical baptism of fiery leaves.

A Bride to Be

Part 1
       Life would never be the same again her mother said.
      "Never more will you be able to put your own needs first."
Emily wondered whether she ever had? She had escaped for one last time, before the guests arrived. In the garden of her family home she could find the quiet space for reflection amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for the big day. She wondered among the herbaceous borders assaulted by their showy flush of colour and drinking in their scent. The light summer rain had left crystal drops of water on the blooms and she watched their unhurried course trickling down into each flowers sweetness. The simplicity of it brought tears to her eyes and she gently patted her silk glove to her carefully made up cheek. She was painted, disguised for the benefit of the guests, a society queen unseen in her natural beauty.
       The bees buzzed hungrily from flower to flower collecting liquid gold, pollen souped by the rain, to take back to the hive: the great provider. Was that what Carmichael would be? She was not sure that he might not turn out to be rather a bully. But he was a catch and the arrangement had been made carefully by her father to the satisfaction of both families. She must trust all would be well. Carmichael's slightly baffled look, his sun bleached honey hair and slight yet muscular physique certainly appealed to her, but he could be a little brash and boorish in the company of other men and she hoped he would be more genteel in his manner towards her when they were alone. She worried that her beauty, painted as it had always been would still hold his roving eye once the paint started to crack. Only time would tell. She must face this day with boldness, come what may. Would it be so terrible to be the trophy wife. Another society wife in the driving seat  a great house, while the Lord and heir went about his business, a bachelor in all but name, one of the boys, living it up at his Club?
      For one fleeting moment she wished she could run from this circus, her obligation to her family, and trip the light fantastic in the garden with the bees, disperse among the wilderness like a dandelion tuft singing 'Hey ho, into the botanical we go!' But the pull of expectations and corset silks grounded her. There was no escape.

Part 2
      There was no escape, a way in but not out. Even the water sparkling like diamonds must evaporate and begin again. She must become a different brand of woman, innocence would only take her so far. She must hone new skills of womanhood now, manage her own home and staff. She would be queen in a new society with responsibility for invitations, dinners, house parties and in time a family. She would need to walk the tightrope of civility and superiority within a strange new land and do it well or be fed to the lions. She worried that she would not be up to the task, that she would be a poor mistress, fail at the accounts. And what of being a wife? Would she manage to sing honeyed sweetness into her King's ear? Could she become his Queen in the arts of love, a vessel for his bodies joy?
     She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening to the sounds of excitement from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and polished surface. She passed through the lozenge of light from the vaulted oculus that walked down the landing through the day as the sun arced through the sky and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now. Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the finger of glass. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.

A Lover's Touch

       It begins in the dip of the dunes, a hollow from time passing, surrounded by spiky marram fronds tangling in the wind with their pompon flowers and curlicue ends. It is commensurate with our love.
       "I hold you in my heart, love" he says.
       "And I you."
He palms my cheek and lowers his mouth to mine drinking sage and thyme from my lips. His hands stroke from my neck to my breast as he kisses my throat and I melt into his embrace. I have always been a rose among his thorns and he may yet draw blood but the bitter sweet sadness of our separation melts away as the rhythm of my heart's staccato beat increases and revives us, smelling salts to the memories of times gone by. I am at his mercy, he at mine. The salted ginger and musk of his skin arouse my inner goddess.
    "Be mine" he pleads.
    "Always" I answer, and he lowers me to the crust of salt-sand at the heart of the dune and we drink from the glorious lovers cup, fermented, sweet as botrytis, a forbidden fruit.

Victory Lap

           The journey to the UK was spent squashed between two generously proportioned Women's Institute knitters, and between their gossip and their girth I had managed neither sleep nor sustenance. Now as I escape the Knitters and the confines of coach and am reintroduced to the idea of being in control of my own limbs I find myself longing for food. There is a bar after Passport control and I pick up a coffee and a tuna sandwich. There's something miraculous about the reviving quality of coffee. I find I don't have to drink it, just the smell of it, the suggestion of caffeine, kicks my brain in to gear. I have no doubt I would have been one of Pavlov's favourite dogs, I am so readily susceptible to suggestion.
            Conscious of the crowd of people streaming past me to clog the baggage reclaim carousels I stow the tuna sandwich and take a last sniff at the caffeine  before moving on. As I near baggage reclaim I check the flight number on the overhead screen and notice the flight has not been assigned a carousel yet. I have beaten the system. For a moment I feel quietly smug but then reality dawns on me that this is not terribly helpful: I have escaped the aeroplane  only to be at the mercy of the ground staff. Hostage once more. I resign myself to make the most of the moment of freedom for what it is and decide to eat the tuna sandwich. For hours I have been confined to a seat in the plane, my desperation to escape still palpable in the air and yet I search for somewhere to sit. Such are the conventions:I was brought up to sit down to eat.
             I scan the baggage reclaim hall and spot a bank of four seats. Two are free but as I near the bench I realise the occupants are the two WI women from the plane, still knitting, and I quickly swerve away, taking all due care not to make eye contact, and search for an alternative. The majority of people are concentrated around three reclaim belts and I notice the one at the end of the hall is out of order and I decide to perch on that.
             Removing the sandwich from my bag I sit on the overlapping rubber mats of the carousel and struggle to find an angle of comfort. That done to the best of my ability I am about to unwrap the sandwich when an inaudible tannoy system announces its most recent gibberish. I put down the sandwich on the carousel, pick up my bag and go to check the screen. No new information is available, but as I turn back I bump into the WI Knitters again who ask me if I know when the bags will come. They are, to be kind, a little beyond middle age, these two knitting bookends, and it occurs to me that maybe they cannot read the writing on the screen without their glasses.
             "No news yet" I say in a sudden act of civility.
That was all the encouragement they needed. I was dragged into the position of semi-participant-audience for the next five minutes of 'conversation' and my only way out seemed to be to offer to get a baggage trolley for them which they accepted gratefully. I skulked off and left them to it, heading not to the trolleys but back to my sandwich.
             I had got as far as removing half the sandwich from the wrapper when a second announcement was heard ( although I am not quite sure if it was intelligible to anyone) and I had to get up to check the screen again. Nothing.
            "Couldn't you find a trolley dear?" Damn. "I think they are over there"
             "Ok ladies, back in a minute." There was no escape. At the other end of the baggage hall there was a line of trolleys stacked together and I went to collect one. A third announcement followed by a whirring of machinery and an audible warning bell looked more promising. The mounting impatience of a hall full of jet lagged and weary travellers suddenly stirred itself to action as positions were vied for at the side of the carousel and my two knitters finally put away their ball of wool, jabbed through with needles, and urged me into a better position at the carousel.
            Before I know how it's happened I'm standing three deep in a scrum of desperation, suitcases being pulled from the carousel into my chins, yanked up with such force that I'm  elbowed in the ribs and with other passengers stepping back onto my toes to make their escape. A rugby scrum? American football? They have nothing on these desperate passengers. I give up all hope of escaping to my tuna sandwich and pitted myself to the yolk. As the belt begins to clear I spot my case and pull it clear, shortly after helping the Knitters with their bags. I waved them off with the trolley and dragging my suitcase back to the out of order carousel, prepared to eat my tuna sandwich in my own time, on my own terms.
       There is a sudden whirring of machinery I front of me and an audible warning bell and from across the room I see that my sandwich is on the move. The out of order conveyor belt it seems is out of order no longer. I drag my suitcase as fast as I possibly can and reach the conveyor belt just in time to watch my sandwich disappear through a rubber curtain. In desperation I abandon my suitcase climb on board the baggage reclaim belt and ride on my hands and knees through the curtain. Re emerging through the other curtain fifteen seconds later,surfer style, sandwich in hand, feeling every inch the hero of the hour and take a
full lap of honour before joining my suitcase.

Faith Healing

     There is nourishment from the chalice, a new beginning, a promise to open the doors to my heart.
     "Drink this in remembrance of me." The voice whispers in my head as I supplicate on my knees. January waxes to February, March. The voice whispers on, "Focus, see the handprint in the wall of memories. Push through, let in a chink of light, of hope, of belief. Bring down the protective armour from about you. Do not be afraid, the pain will pass. Know that you have it to do now, it is in front of you, a foe to be defeated, but it will not always be so. Conquer your fears, break down the walls. They are not nearly so solid and terrifying as they appear.  Know when this is done you open the way for new possibilities. You will be unhobbled, unbound, no longer yoked to those weighty irrationalities. Let the light of serenity fill up the gaps. See your memories for what they are: the past, stripped down to truth and bone, and let them lay as skeletons of the past, not guardians of the future, blood full of rust and iron. They will decay, and from there decomposition you will grow again in love and trust as I watch from above."

After the Storm

          It had been a long night of watching and waiting for the sleep that did not come. The window pane rattled to the winds command and leaves clawed at the glass insistently, begging to come in from the cold. The lighthouse set up its steady rhythm, a metronome of light sweeping the bay: blink, blink, then drowning darkness followed by a crescendo of light dimming again to nothing. I had listened to the plaintive cry of fog horns as the fishing boats felt their way home to safe harbour. I imagined the heaving decks, slick with sea water, men peering through eyes brimful of brine and sting, searching for their safe haven.
       Usually the indoor sounds of a storm sooth me, I am comforted by my own position of security, but the sound of that boat kept taking me out to be tossed on the sea and I could not rest knowing there were souls on board, possibly lost unable to rest. In my mind the hymn I had known so well from Sunday school came back to me: Oh hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea, and I hummed it over and over, a pleading lullaby to the storm.
        When the storm finally blew herself out in the Reaping hours, I made myself a cup of tea and sat in silence feeling exhausted,defeated, but then the dawn broke and the chink of sun lit the far horizon bringing warmth and hope. All would be well. I put on my boots and walked down on to the ribbon of beach left by the lowering tide. A necklace of shells glinted on the hightide line interspersed with long ribbons of gelatinous kelp and mermaid hair stripped from its roots. My footfalls slid into miniature gritty dunes of sand as I trudged the shoreline, deep in my own daydreams, toward the spit of rocks at the end. Once there I needed to pick out a route amongst the seaweed mounds and rock pools to traverse the slippery rocks safely, but I cannot help searching for hidden treasure. It is easier to see in this flat morning light where sky is not mirrored on the water surface of the clear pools. The waving fronds of an undisturbed anemone, the sideways scuttle of a crab, the fluster of small fry are an illicit pleasure, but as I gain the top of the promontory my eyes once more seek the horizon. It is not as far off as it should be. The grey clouds hangs low in the sky, exhausted from their exploits, the space between them and sea shrouded in a visual white noise of fog resting on a calmed sheet of hammered steel sea. Like me, the oceans appears to be holding her breath after the storm, waiting to see what the day will bring

A Love Story

          Once, long ago, Land and Sea fell in love. Sea would caress Land day and night shuddering with pleasure and Land would hold Sea tight in her secret places cradling his essence. She would peel glittering gems from her skirts and gift them to Sea until he was rich with her treasures. These gifts were so numerous that Sea could not care for them all, not for all his polishing back and forth and by and by they lost their shine and Sea began to deposit them around the shores of their affection overwhelmed by Lands generosity, and retreat silently back into himself. Daily Land would offer them to him again, a dowry for her love but Sea turned his back asking her to keep them safe for he could not carry them all and did not want them to be harmed in his salt spray tustles with North Wind when they went out to revel together.
        "Wind is my companion, but he a jealous and vengeful soul. He has loved you as long as I, but where I would mould you through time with love, he would shape you to his will with no regard for your desires. I must parry with him to save you from his ravages."
Land sat heavy in contemplation for a while and whispered gently to her lover
        "But how will you go to him my Lord, and how shall I know you will return to me?"
        "Gaze upon your sister, Moon, and know she will pull me to him just as surely as she will always return me to you and I will trace the nakedness of your shores with my loving fingers for all eternity."

A Spectre in our Midst

           The seance was arranged to take place in Aunty Mabel's Parlour in Croyden Hill. Someone had failed to do the maths: it would be a squeeze, especially with the rosewood dining table hogging the centre of the room decked with the ouija board and fresh candles, but it was better to meet somewhere the dear departed had spent time, and nobody could think of any walls that held so many memories of Bert as those (except the legion), even though the cracks had been papered over with bold blowsy blooms in flocked orange and brown. As everyone arrived a mountain of coats grew on Granny's sagging bed. There was no social order there, camel hair coats were flung on top of donkey jackets, mackintoshes on top of ponchos, Madge's fur wrap struggling for air at the bottom. There was a constant to and fro down the narrow corridor from the bedroom and the parlour and greetings could not be ignored, a curt nod here,  a fond embrace there, a wink, ; it was an intricate weave of body language and feet as we congregated beyond the front door.
     "Maybe we should have gone to George's, it' certainly is going to be cosy" Aunty Mabel trilled nervously adjusting chairs.
     "That's it love, if only we had you're gift for foresight," Uncle Bob muttered acidly. Aunty Mabel ducked the verbal blow expertly, used to the sniping belittlements that came her way and chivvied the guests into the room.
        "Welcome, welcome, in you come now. Take a seat. Coats in the bedroom John, we're going to be as warm as toast in here."
         Ezra arrived, her usual mix of haughty bustle and condescension. She stared glacially at each member of family in turn, assessing her superiority. Uncle Bob was the only one immune to this behaviour. Undeterred by its blatant hostility he came forward to great her, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. He was not quick enough though, as Ezra put up her hands to ward him off.
        "No thank you Bob. You know I don't do counterfeit affection. I know we all agreed to be here for this sham but let's not pretend any of us would be together otherwise." Usually oblivious to the sting of words, more familiar with doling them out than receiving them, Bob looked hurt for a moment but quickly recovered and with great decorum and chivalry bowed slightly and pulled out a chair for Aunt Ezra. Long ago My mother told me they had once been close, loved each other even, but what ever lay between them, forgiveness was still a long way off.
       The family were  finally gathered, everyone seated about the table, the wallpaper flowers bending in, making the room feel even more crowded. Aunty Mabel took her seat in the circle and lit the candles with a long taper, taking control of the room instantly.
      "It is time, to remember those who have passed and speak with them in the present. Let us link hands to complete the connection. Rita, as you are on my right you will have your hand on the planchette with me. Is that alright dear?" Rita nodded nervously. Aunty Mabel ceremoniously placed her hand in Uncle Bob's, offering the other to Rita and everyone else followed suit, all in an attempt to determine what stake they would have in great Uncle Bert's meagre estate: war medals, a silver snuff box, savings bonds, the ceremonial sword. Uncle Bob and Aunty Mabel, having cared for Bert in the last few years of his life were probably hoping for the lion's share. If Mabel could sway the spirits to convince everyone she was the rightful heir to the whole lot she would, but more than anything she wanted to keep the furniture. It was rather too good for the upstairs flat she and Uncle Bob shared but I have to say I hoped they would keep it, I didn't fancy being roped into moving it again after the struggle we had on the stairs getting it up here. Ezra had a craving for something but her desires were a mystery to everyone, possibly even herself. As for me, I had no great expectation, but hoped for the old Lyons biscuit tin stuffed with black and white photographs. All of those photographs had a story to tell, a secret to whisper like torchlight on mysteries and I badly wanted to be their confidant.
         Aunty Mabel's countenance changed as she settled into the role of medium. She became still and grave, breathing deeply.
     "All Hallows' now gather to share your secrets and desires one letter at a time. Share with us your wisdom through the veil of night." Agatha tittered and Aunty Ethel cleared her throat meaningfully, then gave her a sharp dig in the ribs for good measure, at which the titter became a squeak. "Enter our presence through the seams of memory" Aunty Mabel continued "and give us answers to our earthly concerns. Bert, Albert Heather, are you there? Come into the bosom of your loving family once more. Speak with us. Give us a sign."
    The planchette twitched beneath her hand and began to glide across the ouija board, hesitantly at first, them more purposefully,
     'G
      O, S
      U    CK,  E   GG S, BITCH'.
The witch sat on the balcony outside the parlour window, hidden by the trellis, twirling a tress of  black silky hair, cackling to herself with the satisfaction of a job well done as she viewed the ensuing mayhem as the seance scattered and fled.

Walking Bryher

           Recharged with a minted pea and goats cheese ciabatta I enjoy the view from Hell Bay's terrace watching the swallows dart, flirting with the currents of air. Three white swans paddle incongruously on a briny pool, buffeted sideways by a determined sea breeze affecting the usual calm composure and making them look slightly flustered. I finish my drink and watch as the finches gather to stake a claim on any crumb I may have dropped. It is tempting to leave the biscotti for them but this sort of behaviour is firmly discouraged: years of tourist generosity has turned them into a menace, however appealing.
          Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
           I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy,  ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
               My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide.  Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.

Between Islands

             Donning my neoprene shoes I prepare to walk on water. It is only a thin film, no miracles here other than the ebb and flow of a Spring Tide revealing a horseshoe of sand bars normally six feet under or more between Islands. It is an odd sensation to stride out on to land normally hidden by tides, but last night a blood red super moon hung in the heavens casting her spell and today the miraculous is made possible for all mortals.
             There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
             New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
             It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.

Heartsong

How many drops of happiness do you contain? Don't doubt that there are lost treasures waiting to be found within the chambers of your heart. Will you keep them a living secret like memories locked in a box? Do not be the ghost of a bride you once were, confined and defined by your past. Be whole again, explore all that you are. Let me drive the travellers from the heath. I will bring them in from the cold and set them up in the comfort and warmth of a Bedouin tent. They have a drunken three legged dog and a bear that plays the banjo and I defy you not to laugh. They will not scorn you, they will welcome your mirth and share in it with you. Come, bring me my locket in payment I have no need of that silver pebble at my throat and they will not uproot themselves for nothing.
***
Come now. Head towards the weeping willow at the crook of the river and you will see their fires blazing orange against the twilight, the air spiced with woodsmoke and something altogether more mysterious. I know your mother warned you never talk to the gypsies in the wood but she lived her life in fear of shadow demons, do not be hampered by those narrow lines. Go. Live your chameleon dreams, travel through meadows honeyed with dew, through valleys filled with the song of streams, dance naked under the moon doused in perfume and be true always to yourself for you are peerless and priceless and you will become whole again.

Breathe

Monique was desperate to escape the cosseted closeness and confinement of her life at home, her prim Aunt, stiff as her stays,constantly fussing over the neatness of her doilies, the plates and cups lined up just so, the regimented folds of laundry. A place for everything and everything in its place. She couldn't breathe. She gazed at the willow arching low outside the window, swaying freely in the breeze, it's branches sweeping sunlit dust motes through the air, so many fairies, here one minute, gone the next. There were secrets hidden here, something untrue at the heart of it but hidden just out of view. Did this confinement offer protection,security? Or was it a hiding place from the riches of the world beyond the chateau walls.
As a younger child she had ducked between the branches of the willow and truly believed she had entered a different world. Here she had guarded her treasures, a nest lined with feathers,  her mother's Wedgwood
 brooch, the tiny silver bell from her teething rattle. Her greatest treasure was the tooled pocket watch. It had once belonged to Father but it had been damaged somehow, in the accident maybe, and now nobody wanted it but her. She could see life in it still, she made it her own, dismantled the clock face with its intricate cogs and levers and set it into the bark of the tree as a sundial for her own universe to spin on. She had waited, a whole childhood it seemed, for the sun to come from the South and tell her all she needed to understand but it stubbornly stayed on its course through France, East to West and would not light up her dials.
Beyond the willow, the garden was a parade ground. Neatly trimmed yew and box sat at precise right angles and the grass was rolled to striped carpet perfection, not a weed in sight. This was not a garden where billowy dandelion clocks fluffed their Pom-poms or little girls skipped about collecting daisy chain flowers or searching for four leafed clovers in the sunshine. Rows and rows of white speckled plants stood to attention. Misbehaviour was not tolerated in any form by Aunt Sylvie and the flowers were instantly beheaded if they bloomed out of turn.
Monique curled a wisp of hair  from the braid at her shoulder round and round her finger and wondered if she should take the chance of doing something spontaneous, something frivolous, something just to please Aunt Sylvie. She could make cinnamon bread and place it at her Aunts kitchen table. It would still be warm when she returned from town and would make the kitchen smell so inviting. She wondered through to the cavernous kitchen with its enormous pine table , scrubbed and scarred from years of use and began to rummage about. She collected a large bowl from the dresser cupboard then brought flour, yeast, cinnamon, a little brown sugar and eggs from the pantry, some butter from the cold shelf, and quietly stirred the ancestral aromas clockwise. As she became engrossed in the task she found that she was calmed by it and she stirred in love and wanderlust in equal measures with the cinnamon which in turn allowed her mind to wander to the spice trails she thought she would like to follow.
   The door rattled sparking her from her reverie as leaves scampered down the corridors away from an unseen gust. The house drew its breath in anticipation of restriction. Aunt Sylvie was home. There would be not time to let imagination flow now, there was work to be done, a schedule to keep and the restrictions loosed just moments before were re asserted once more.

Put Yourself in Cinderella's shoes

        Autumn curls her toes in the murderous morning's frost and decay, her leaves embroidered with Jack Frost's needlepoint. I set out along the path remembering the feel of shale and shell beneath my feet from that first Summer when we had crunched hand in hand along the sand but it all seems so distant now. Now as I walk the path I feel the emptiness by my side, the ice cracking beneath the heal of my boot, the crust on a creme brûlée. As a child I remember the joy of puddle jumping on these ice-glass surfaces, the innocent destruction that brought a sense of power: to crush the sheet to tiny glass-like shards and watch the splinters spin off across the slippery surface. Now all I see is how brittle things are, the ice veneer a mirror on our own reality, so thin, so easily broken.
         It is a while since I have taken this path through the woods and I do not remember where it leads but I know I must follow it, put some distance between us and our latest dispute. I find I can forgive more easily as the miles extend between us and time serves to bandage my heart.  I must lose myself to find myself, talking sternly all the way. Time to stand on your own two feet Cinderella. Why was that not the moral of the fairytale I want to scream? Can I not make a happy ending of my own? But having never been taught to believe in myself, to be enough,  I was bound by fairytale law to rely on you to bring my happy ever after. I am a glass slipper girl: I can dance the first dance and cast my enchantment but I have no staying power without your desire. What lies between us is ethereal, we both need to believe in it to make it real. It is hard to believe in magic when surrounded by the utilitarian, day after endless day of chores that stifle spontaneity, one must have hope to make it possible, or a fairy godmother . But I would be lost without you. If I hobble home to you now on lotus feet will you hold my hand, kiss my toes and mend the rift? Make love glitter between us again? I may have one last dance left to share, a last warp and weft of enchantment.

A Concubines Curse

A life of endless intrigue, sniping and bitching, there beauty turned to paint, their kindness brittle with suspicion. They were doomed to live the rest of their days as pampered shadows of the once beloved, constantly in earshot of their many replicas.  Their families had willingly given them up as flowers to decorate the Emperors garden. They had once blossomed as generously as cherry trees and been plucked for their beauty. The lucky ones bore him fruit and at least had concerns beyond their fading favour and beauty to consider, but for most, their season in the sun had been fleeting and they were left with no purpose but to fight for their place in a hierarchy of cats, clawing and hissing at each other and constantly licking their wounds with salt. The Sun's glow that once bathed them in golden light turned away and left them cold and dissatisfied. There was more bitterness here than in an orchard of lemons.

A Grand Union Morning

        A heron stands sentry at the side of the canal, half hidden in morning misted reeds. His head cocked slightly, he holds his glassy eye trained on the camouflage reflections of overhanging branches on the water, watching for the shadowy movement from those that dwell beneath her surface. They are there, I have seen the eternity rings spread from a fly-catching fish's bubble pop, the tiny ripples expanding outwards, making the reflections shimmer, a watery mirage, a rippled funhouse mirror.
      There is bucolic beauty in every direction, air honeyed with hay, tall heavy seed heads woven with spider silks nod at the bank with horsetails and damp thistledown. Golden fields, cut to stubble are spotted with wheels of straw and hedgerows show a promise of Autumn fruitfulness. The white noise of the river's journey underpins lowing cows and the bleating of sheep. Birds sing out from hidden places within tree and hedge announcing the new day. Ted circles at my feet, impatient for adventure. Time to walk the plank. Let the gentle snores of fellow river dwellers recede and find out what secrets the river has to whisper as she tumbles to the sea.

The Sky's the Limit

Wednesday was the worst day. It should have heralded the middle of the week, a peak from which she could slide back down into the weekend and her longed for day of rest. Instead it had become the pinnacle of dread. The Nursery gave out at mid day and the well-shod of Finchley descended on 'The Sky's the Limit' for lunch, their chocolate-smearing, nose-picking, sneeze-swiping, sugar-sprinkling children in tow. The 'Terribles' we're not limited to the twos in her experience, the three, four and five year olds that visited her cafe seemed equally capable of rising to the label, as did some of the Mothers. How was it possible to get cappuccino foam on the lamp shades for goodness sake? And yet there it was, mocking  Sky's belief in the propriety of a certain class. But they were reliable customers at least. When many of the other traders on the road had gone under she still managed to keep going and she knew it was these regulars she had to thank. She tried to forget that they were the stone in her shoe and smoothed her pinny, ironed on her smile and braced for impact.
     The day did not disappoint: two glasses of spilt juice, four returned (half eaten) shortbread squares with smarties missing ( after all that is what happened when the children ate them) -"Smile"- and a near emergency when little Amelia had to be taken to the kitchen with her Mother to empty the tea pot of its scalding liquid before the child's finger could be removed from the spout. The arrival of the raucous Barnston twins who brought with them their Harmonica and a toy kettle drum and proceeded to 'entertain' their unduly appreciative captive audience was the last straw.  What were these Mother's thinking Sky wondered, other than perhaps " Make it stop!"
      When she had opened the tea shop Sky had envisaged a  delicate clinking of tea cups on saucers, a genteel kettle whistling in the background of an aromatically  steaming kitchen, clouds of pink frosted cupcakes and handpied delicacies. These wild wanderers swishing in and the constant competition between the smell of bleach, floor wax, coffee and gentleman's relish ( don't ask!) was somewhat at odds with her dream. Now by the end of each day she was desperate to escape the marigold handcuffs and slip into a world of her own creation. The church bells would chime their evensong melody and under their spell she would lock up one life and enter another, forger the marmalade stickiness on the backs of the chairs and suck instead the sweet nectar of life; stroke her cat from whiskers nose to the tip of its tail, run her hands through the bowl of frozen peas, sink into a sloe gin at sunset and wait for her haddock to poach. After dinner she would submerge her skin beneath bath water, rainbow-slicked with fragrant oil and let her cares melt away. She would remember the ripples on the lake surface that she had enjoyed in the weekend's sunshine and imagine her silken skin to be that of an iridescent mermaid with magical powers, one who has never heard of marigolds.

Fantasia

         Sky lay on the carpet of moss feeling the damp ground soak through the softened fibres of her much loved cotton dress, languidly sucking the honey dew from a clover cup. It was one of Summer's treasures, finding the space and time to lie here by the shore of the lake, watching the iridescent crystal shine of the sun flash from the ripples on its surface, alone with her imagination.  Some days the lake was a pure flat mirror reflecting the cosmos inverted in liquid form. She would sink into its hidden world and imagine her life in opposites. That had it's own secret beauty, but this sparkling glinting light, peered at from beneath the hair of her fringe allowed her to lose the focus in her everyday thoughts and drift into a glittering world of Maharajas, of Sultans and Bedouin beauty. She had always been a Princess at heart and was ever searching for her courtiers. It is inevitable that a girl who serves others will dream of being served, that a girl who lives parochial life will spread her wings and take flight in her mind, and Sky's reality was undeniably mundane.
           A tea shop on the Finchley Road, endless rounds of washing up, crumbly jay cloths and sweeping. Wealthy Mothers drank their tea while ignoring their little darlings as Sky's table cloths were scribbled on with Sharpies. (Who'd give a permanent marker to a 3 year old?) The Mothers all payed good money for a civilised cup of tea  with juice and an iced bun for little Johnny, if it meant that the mess was here and not at home. Somebody else's responsibility to tidy it away.  If they could get away with leaving the children in the cafe alone Sky was sure they would.
           But when her face had been steamed for the last time by the industrial size dishwasher, the teacups carefully stowed on their hooks, clinking their last clink of the day and the cloths cleaned and hanging to dry, she would escape her marigold handcuffs and climb into a world of wonder. There was no pudendan promise to her fairytale, but maybe it was better that way.  Less messy anyway.

Losing Faith

Losing Faith

When Verity found herself pregnant at 17 she thought her world had come to an end. She hid it from everyone. She wouldn't even admit it to herself until the morning sickness got so bad she had to stay off school. Her Mum had found her in the bathroom and given her one of those looks that said a thousand words that only Mums can give: don't go telling me you have food poisoning; you've only got yourself to blame if you drank to much at that party; you can't keep doing this if you want to get the grades for that university place you're after, but then the tears had welled in Verity's eyes and spilled silently down her cheeks as she slowly shook her head,
       "Mum, I..."
        She hadn't needed to say any more. Mrs Shine was a no-nonsense body of practicality with a soft caramel centre and she could not bare to see her daughter's distress. She knelt on the floor and wrapped her arms about her daughter's shaking shoulders and held her through her tears until they ran dry. She did not ask the inane questions: What were you thinking? How did this happen?Who is the Father?; Who did this to you?  It didn't matter. They would get through this together.
       "Dry your eyes my darling, crying won't change anything now. Tell me what you want and we will try and make it happen, together."
It was easier then, knowing she had her Mother's support, knowing she was not alone.
        Verity had assumed she would lose every bit of the future that she had imagined, A'levels, university, a Summer in Europe backpacking with her friends, a Gap year but now she could talk through her options everything felt more possible. She went into school with her Mum and they spoke with the head master . He agreed that she could stay on until the end of the Spring term and sit her mocks at school and everyone had home study in the Summer so she just needed to come in to sit the exams. Her chosen Universities were expecting her to take a gap year so that gave her some time to consider her options. verity was beginning to see a way back to her chosen path. With her Mothers support she had gone from feeling like her world had caved in, to feeling that she could manage her A'levels and,  although it might be delayed, University was still possible. Through all her fears and doubts her Mum had kept urging her to "have a little faith" and she was beginning to.
        Her time came two weeks after her last exam. Her waters broke in the supermarket car park and the contractions began soon after. They came hard and fast and Verity was scared.
        "Mum, I can't do this, make it stop."
        "Have a little faith. I believe in you Verity" she had said.
Verity had taken comfort as much from the words as from her Mum's calm supporting presence and hours later her daughter had been safely delivered into a room thick with euphoria. Verity turned to her Mum, tears of joy shining in both their eyes and said "Mum, meet your Grandaughter, I have a little Faith."
        The Summer went by in a blur of love, nappies and sleep deprivation and Verity found she did not envy her friends their trip around Europe. She could not imagine wanting to miss a moment with Faith, she was growing so fast.  Mrs Shine encouraged her to take an Assistants job that had come up at the local library two days a week. She was more than happy to look after Faith and what is more, she understood how important it was for Verity to have something other than Faith to talk about with her peers who couldn't really relate to the all consuming nature of motherhood. She did so well in the post that by Christmas the Head Librarian, Val, had convinced her to enrol for the undergraduate degree in Librarianship with the Open University. Faith was doing well and sleeping better now she was on solids, so Verity studied at home in the evenings and once a week went to the Adult Education Centre leaving her Mum to babysit. She  was still hoping to take up her place at The University of York to do English and art History the following September, looking forward to sharing a flat with Millie, childcare permitting and this would help get her back into the frame of mind for studying and,  post graduation, may even provide a job.
      She was surprised how much she enjoyed the course and it was great being a student again. She had been nervous of people's preconceptions of her as a 'teenage Mum' but she found that almost everyone at the Adult Education Centre was open minded.  They were a rag-tag bunch; a school dropout; an Art Historian; an ex-Accountant searching for something new; a young widow trying to make ends meet, and then there was Jez. He was a little older than Verity, mid twenties, but they were on the same wavelength and hit it off instantly. She found herself looking forward to seeing him, wishing to share thoughts and ideas with him. Verity found herself making an extra effort, dressing carefully for the class, applying just a little makeup. Her Mum sat quietly and noticed the change hoping that her daughter's new found glow and confidence would be held carefully by it's new custodian. Things seemed  to be getting back to normal.
       The course at the college came to an end and the group arranged an informal graduation celebration.
      "You look beautiful" Mrs Shine said, "and whatever happens you have Faith now, don't you. I'll see you later." It had become sort of a joke between them now, 'having faith', as if she had found religion, and so she had in a way because she could believe anything was possible when she looked at her beautiful baby girl. Verity breathed in the fresh bath smell of her and kissed Faith's rosy cheeks. She was a little hot, but she was having a tough time breaking through her bottom teeth.  " I'll kiss you in your dreams sweetheart. Look after Grandma."
      "We'll be fine darling. Us girls are both going to have a snuggle with Trunky and a story and then an early night. You have a lovely time."
       Verity had enjoyed the evening with her misfit of friends. It had felt good to be young and free that evening, to feel that the world was hers to command and that anything was possible. She was flushed with success and with the attention Jez was putting her way, especially after he linked his hand with hers beneath the table and brushed his thumb over her palm. It seemed like a promise of things to come.  They had kissed that night as they parted and she had known it was a first kiss not a last one. She was floating on air as she undid the latch and walked up the stairs to bed. All the lights were out and there was a gentle insistent snore to be heard from behind her mothers door. She went to the bathroom and looked at her reflection wondering if she could see the glow of desire on her face that she felt at her core.She went across the landing and creaked open the nursery door to kiss Faith in her dreams.
         Only the room felt wrong somehow. Too still.
         Mrs Shine would never forget that terrible scream for as long as she lived. It broke her heart to think of the pain her daughter held within her that night as they realised they had lost Faith. The following weeks were unimaginably dreadful and everything seemed so irrelevant next to the gaping hole left by Faiths absence. The cruel nature of cot death was that there was no one to blame, no reason, nothing they could have done. It was a game of Russian Roulette with the Grim Reaper. Slowly, but slowly, they started to go through the motions of everyday life again, always accompanied by the emptiness that echoed inside them. Verity had deferred her University place uptake for another year on personal grounds and the Dean of Admissions had been very understanding and in time Mrs Shine had encouraged her to go back to working part time at the Library hoping that the routine would bring her some comfort but Verity seemed very lost.  Mrs Shine anxious about the level of her daughter's withdrawal, asked her friend Millie to meet up with Verity to talk about University in the hope that it would give her a new focus, a new start.  All she could do was pray.
        Millie arrived at the coffee shop on the high street early, eager to bag the comfy sofa in the window that she knew would be hot property today as the watery Spring sun filtered in under the stripy awning. She was longing to see Verity.  It was six months since poor little Faith had died so suddenly and she had worried for her friend and how she would cope. Faith had been an unexpected gift but had become Verity's whole world for those brief ten months before being snatched away again. They had spoken on the phone about Verity coming to York to take up her deferred place in the new Academic year and Millie was pleased to see signs that her friend was ready to re-engage  with life. She ordered her Chai Latte and settled into the dumpy squat hollows of the sofa with her book to await her friends arrival.
An hour later and she was still waiting when her phone rang,  singing out 'Always look on the bright side of life' into the noise of the coffee shop.
Hello?
Is that you Millie?
Mrs Shine?

         Verity had tried to hide the guilt she felt over the loss of her baby but it followed her like a shadow, constantly pulling at her with its invisible weight. Everybody had said it was not her fault. Cot deaths were just one of life's inexplicable cruelties. Nothing she could have done. But she knew she was to blame. She had been out that night, enjoying herself.  If she hadn't been consumed with the desire to be alone with Jez, to be kissed by him, she might have got home sooner, been able to stop it somehow. In her more rational moments she understood that fate would have taken the same course irrespective of the drinks she consumed or the lingering kiss that she had enjoyed but her guilt was a weeping sore that she could not help prodding at. Verity felt that she was living in a slightly surreal world, Alice trapped on the wrong side of the looking glass watching the world go by on it's merry-go-round  but she had no desire to get back on the ride. Nobody seemed to understand that for her keeping the guilt alive, the sorrow and pain on fire, was both her penance and the way in which she could keep hold of Faith. People had been terribly kind of course but now there seemed to be an overwhelming expectation that she should move on. She was trying to move forward but it was like escaping from quick sand; the more she moved the tighter she seemed to be gripped.
         After a while she couldn't bare to see the pity on people's faces any more  so she had locked her pain away behind the reflective surface of a mirror and learned to dissemble,showing not the pain inside her but a reflection of what they wanted to see: that she was coping and making plans for her future, while,  protected behind her mirror's thin glass she could keen and rock her pain to her chest as she had done her child. Now, though, her strategy was failing. All this talk of moving to York with Millie, was forcing her to cut the only ties to the life she had shared with Faith. She couldn't move on. It would mean losing Faith all over again. The mirror's glass was treacherously thin and the pressure was causing the cracks to spider across the surface of her protective layer. She was not strong enough to let go. She could only see one escape.
        She hugged her Mum goodbye whispering her " I love you," and left home early for her meeting with Millie saying she needed to go to the Library. Nobody would be there until ten o'clock. She had her own keys now. She let herself in through the back door locking it behind her and went into the storage room.  She sat down on the floor with her back against the shelves and placed the note from her coat pocket next to her. She took out her homemade tourniquet and her Mother's empty Insulin syringe and half-filled the chamber with air. She found the vein in her arm and withdrew a little blood, wanting to make sure she had hit her mark,and then depressed the syringe.
Val found her an hour later with the note at her side.  "I'm sorry I  lost Faith."

The Grasshopper's Groove

Freedom, independence, spiritual enlightenment,

Gwendoline groaned as the group ground to a halt again.
She had been listening to the dawn chorus her whole life, dreaming of the day when she too may be a strong enough musician to join the choir. Today was her first rehearsal but so far it had not gone well.
"Gadzooks' exclaimed the Heron, looking down his nose,what is that garbage?I think I shall gag."
"Your grating on my melody" sang the blackbird
"Gnawing at the base line" cawed the rooks
"The thrush says your gabbling" said the pigeon in a guileless tone
"No, I merely meant it was rather gaudy. It's grating against our Gavotte."
"Say what you mean girls, it's ghastly" glared the haughty gander. "Show her the gate girls"
Gwendoline hung her head. She had hoped for a moment of glory and now they all wished her gone.
With one great leap she vaulted the gate and the great gunnera leaves beyond, for the grass meadows of home, where she rested under a gauzy spider's web. Her friend Penelope let out a thread gliding delicately above her head asked "How did it go?"
"G g g grotesque" was all Gwendoline could manage between gargantuan sobs they said I was gaudy, grating and graceless"
"Pah! what do those birds know. Birds of a feather stick together and they are not worth your good opinions. If you have a song in your heart, you sing it, never mind what anyone else says. They're not the friends for you my gorgeous green goddess, if they can't appreciate your gift. Enjoy the day and sing your song follow your own voice not the voice of others, it will lead you true.
As the sun rose through her arc in the sky Gwendoline followed through gaps in the tall grass of the meadow sipping sweet dew and chewing on the tender shoots, climbing and jumping and finding her springing gait.
And so it was that she came to the grey gravel bed's edge as the sun dipped below the trees. She waited for the rise of the gibbous moon in the gloaming and felt the urge to beat her drum to the rhythm of nature but she stopped herself, feeling again the shame and disappointment she had felt that morning, the beginning of heartbreak she experienced thinking that she would never take part. But then the most wonderful thing happened. All around her, other grasshoppers hidden in the reeds and grasses at the water's edge began to tune up. Gwendoline's heart did a leap of joy. She had followed her voice and it had led her true. She stepped out of the shadow and struck up her rhythm joining it with the syncopated beats of her brethren. She had found her groove.

Hide and Seek

       The paths between the beds lend themselves perfectly to hide and seek and the children play oblivious to the picture beyond their game. They are absorbed by the simple pleasures of their own world. I am invited in.
    'Your turn to count Mummy". They run to hide as I look away counting aloud the first few numbers.
      I am left in peace in an enchanted secret garden of exotic ferns, red hot pokers, proteas and succulents, rhododendron and camellia, Cyprus, Eucalyptus and bottlebrush. Industrious bees drone in the bottle brush blooms sounding like the rubber of bicycle tread on rain drenched streets. Their chaos belies the governance of the hive where direction must be followed, cells filled with life giving nectar, the queen protected. A pheasant struts into view and stops, eyeing me from his red pirate-patch eyes. I get the distinct feeling that I am the one being watched, the outsider. I am not very interesting and he walks slowly away, unperturbed. Squirrels chatter as they dart unseen from branch to branch. I know from the guide that they are Red squirrels not the common greys. They were introduced here a few years ago as an experiment and seem to be flourishing thanks to the lack of natural predators. As I continue my count, one appears on the path ahead of me and sits for a moment on its haunches, tail curled up over its back in a Victorian Christmas card pose, then scampers away, corkscrewing up the trunk of a tree, undeterred by the change to a near vertical plane. For a moment I contemplate abandoning the children's game just to wonder aimlessly in this place. I could make my excuses, let them believe they were just too good at hiding. There is a tempting wooden bench, in the shade of a tall drooping tree, with lichen growing on it so thick that the bench looks as if it is cushioned. How long must it have stood undisturbed to develop this degree of decoration? I could be the Miss Haversham of this bench and wait for all to be as it should be. I would become a mysterious lichen laden lady of the glades instead of the  cobwebbed wedding breakfast's bride. Not today.
   "...forty nine, fifty, coming, ready or not." I set off in what I hope is the right direction and almost instantly catch sight of half hidden clothing behind the most enormous dandelion I have ever seen, a dandelion tree. This one is not coming out with a garden fork, maybe a fork-lift. I determinedly  look to the other side of the path  peering obviously high and low as I go, and walk on towards the sound of running water.  An amphora lays on its side pouring its elixir through daisies into a pond filled more  thickly with the leathery leaves of water lilies than with water. I trail my fingertips lazily across the surface, pressing down a lily pad and letting droplets pool on its glossy surface, the glint of the sun catching in the orbs. I day dream watching the hover and glide of a damsel fly its translucent wings seem holographic in the sun. I turn to look down the length of another path and am sure I see a flash of my son's hat through the stand of bamboo.
    "Your too good, I give up. Marco?"
    "Polo." I move forward colliding into my impatient daughters excited hug and watch as the hat disappears deeper into shadow.
    "Come on, let's find him together. Marco?"
    "Polo."
My daughter and I follow the  audible trail to its conclusion and we are all united in happy chatter. We sit at the secret heart of the garden in the lap of Gaia and know we are truly blessed to be in this place together.

Picture Postcard

         Among the dunes you become people that time forgot, away from the cares of home and everyday niggles. Breathe deep, expand your lungs. Feel the fresh air, the honeysuckle glaze, the copper of sun-crisped seaweed the cry of freedom from wheeling birds. Breathing here is beyond mechanical, it is magical.

         Agapanthus sway among the dunes, tall blue Pom-poms floating above the sea grass stalks, gilded in early sunlight. Enamelled beetles with wing cases of copper, emerald, vermillion and ochre clamber like explorers among the stems while painted butterflies probe into the depth of succulent flower hearts. 

         At the tide line, waves unroll onto the shore revealing a bounty of freshly laundered shells, tumbled in a blend of cream and grey and earthy hues, some worked down to their mother of pearl undergarments. So many creatures live hidden from sight, hidden by the soup of sea and sand. 

        Curlews cry and come to land on the arc of wet sand. They goose-step in double time down the beach through the silver ribbons of shallow ripples, pausing to eye tell-tale sand bubbles then go to work, mining for the hidden treasure.

A fishing boat forges through the background, folds of tule mist hanging loosely over the blue that reaches to the horizon and embraces it , melds with it. There is a promise of fresh crab, lobster, sweet secrets below the waves. 

      Our hearts could be more giving if we were nurtured daily in this loving embrace.

Lost in Translation

Lost in Translation

      The gall rose in flames around Miguel's heart as he downed the whisky shots at the Fortune Pub. He constantly felt cheated by this land of promise. He had come over the border from the USA to Mexico intent on making his fortune in the gold rush. He had believed the country would be as a comely wench, oozing elemental riches from her seams, but she was not so easy to woo or willing to give up her secret depths however much he loosened her corsets of dry rock. She teased him with nickel and dime dust and no more.
       He had been panning for gold in the river bed for five years now and it had never got him further than the bar, staring at Fortune's mirror and her foxed reflection of him. The picture had changed over the last few years, steadily becoming more dusty, more haggard, more desperate as he squinted between the lines of emptying whisky bottles on the shelf trying to remember his hopes and dreams.
        He was sick of taking his chances on the roll of a dice, settling for a flash in the pan. In his inebriated state he decided to stake it all on the abilities of One Eyed Meg. Her's was the dependable sort of  wisdom he was looking for so he asked the fortune teller to read his tea leaves. With no tea to hand, the sozzled Gypsy Seer was presented with the dregs at the bottom of his beer bottle to read and the variety of truth she read there gave him a new conviction.
     'Your number came up'. She said.
      So the next day he parted with his last shilling and bought the Golden Ticket, his lottery, his last chance. And indeed good fortune at last seemed to be with him, the old woman had been right: his numbers did come up. His faith in fortunes graces were restored and he felt the blood pulse in his head in that moment knowing his troubles were over.
       That night at the Fortune Pub suddenly he was surrounded by friends all wishing to share in the joy of his good fortune and he revelled in their bonhomie buying round after round of drinks.
All the elemental forces in the sky seemed to join forces that night too and a tempest began in the air. Miguel climbed to the corrugated roof and danced his euphoric tin jig looking through the flying tumbleweed into the storm, into the eye of God and shook the golden ticket into the four winds laughing hysterically. One Eyed Meg ran into the bar and was heard to cry out,
      "Hey Miguel, you crazy dancing fool, come down from there, I mistranslated. The message in the bottle, it doesn't say your number CAME up, it says your number IS up!"
        Before the Lightning struck, the winds wailed back singing their lament.
        "Only with bitterness do you bring out the sweet taste in  life."  Miguel sank to the floor of the tin roof, scorch marks to his head and sole as his golden ticket blew away in the dust of the storm along with the last of his breath.

A Crusader's Tale

          Let me remind you of the colour in my story while we sit here in the smoky dark of our peat-roofed hide-away. I have told you before of my journey from green to gold. It was a crisp iced morning in January when the Knights arrived from the castle, urging us with prayers and promises, to go with them on their crusade, to seek a place in heaven by our deeds just as the new church spires did in their determined climb skyward.
        "Go with us to the heathen land and claim what is ours. The land of our Lord is sullied by men in Turbans wielding Satan's own curved blade. We need only go with the Lord in our hearts and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours."
         I was not highborn but I had a working brain even as a young man. Do not scoff so child! I knew this to be the fools errand. It had a lot less to do with men's hearts than it did to do with the caravans of silks and spices that traded those routes. We would be laying down our lives for the lining of gold in another mans pockets. Still, I was a young man of France and had done some wrongs that were in need of confessing to a mightier ear than Frere François. I thought I may get closer to forgiveness by this undertaking, so, I gathered my bed roll and followed the Knights on their sturdy limbed horses into folklore.
       You, who have only been to the market or to the crossroads cannot imagine what it is to make such a journey. One day maybe you will go for yourselves and you will see the truth of it. It is a timely undertaking to cross a whole country and then another. From our gathering in Lyon we were to make our way to  the heel of Italy, to cross the Mediterranean seas from Bari to Alexandria on the Spring tides and then again on foot to Jerusalem. But life is a journey and the journey became my life, I was enriched. There were so many sights to behold. Mostly we were at the mercy of strangers for our lodging and counted ourselves fortunate for a warm hearth and some bread at the end of the day but more often than not the sky's midnight cloak was our roof. I remember we rested a day outside Venice on the hospitality of a Miller, where I tasted the most delicate confectionary made with sugared almonds and eggs baked soft in the warmth of the sun. Putting it into your mouth was to experience the sweet kiss of a longed for lover.
         After many weeks of footsore toil and dusty beds beneath the stars we reached the ocean.
The ship had its own rookery of messengers that cawed to the winds and screamed their psalms to God and the ship creaked in the curl and foam of the ocean as if writhing with the Holy Spirit. I dreamed of animal spirits leaping through the dusk light, a hare chasing a fox, a badger following a raven. And through these dreams of prophesy and portent, I was brought to a shape shifting land of dunes and goat-skin-tented caravans, a land of succulent dates and warm skinned women with smiling eyes. A land of unknown promise. It was there that I met your mother.