Read MoreOften it was just the scraps I’d saved for the small blackbird with a bright yellow beak and a clear eye, who would visit every morning and sing to me so sweetly. It was my joy to feed him whatever I had left from my meagre meals.
Walking amongst the old tombstones of ancient Sussex churches, primroses, yellow and purple magnolia blossoms blooming in the Spring sunlight, I am a sacred fool talking to the dead
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Read MoreThe practice of Utiseta is an old Norse tradition. The wise women, the seers, would sit out on the burial mounds of their ancestors or that of a wise leader, to seek knowledge and to gain answers.
Read MoreMy voice now holds the voice of the storyteller; the voice of the poet; the voice of my ancestors and adopted ancestors whose voices I hear still echoing in the place of their trauma, waiting to be cleared
Young woman, you pulled up your roots,
to plant yourself in the land
of spice and lava
where shadow puppets speak
in strange tongues
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The alchemy, the alchemy, the alchemy of lime. Black smoke, red fire, white slaked chalk.
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Read MoreA song of joy rings out in Tewkesbury.
A pilgrimage of the heart coming home.
Read MoreWe really felt like three muses, three goddesses, or perhaps a manifestation of the triple goddess herself, as we danced together laughing, twisting, and turning.
Read MoreTransfixed by this heady scene, I moved slowly around the vault in an almost trance like state.
Read MoreYou can take the girl out of Pompey, but you can't take Pompey out of the girl.
Read MoreFor me, the rose conjures images of Tristan and Iseult in secret trysts in the walled garden on top of Tintagel under a new moon…The rose, a flower of myth, and legend. A flower of the gods. A flower of nobility. A flower of love. A flower for everyone.
Read MoreI see the cup as my Holy Grail, my Golden Chalice, taking me on a journey of discovery through the Sussex landscape of ancient Downland, and the ancient forest of the High Weald, Coed Andred, (Ashdown Forest)