Read MoreWhen the summer is bursting through in all its fine greenery, and traditional May Day festival rites are kept to welcome in the luscious fertility of this time, I am keeping a lament, for this is the time that I gave birth to death instead of new life
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.
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 MoreI would simply listen for the laughter of William, Thomazin, Thomas, Jane, and John carried on the wind in high summer across the green fields and Cornish hedgerows.
Read MoreA small dance of feathers directly above brought me out of my reverie, and I could see from the flash of pink red breast, black cap and grey wings this was a bullfinch.
The alchemy, the alchemy, the alchemy of lime. Black smoke, red fire, white slaked chalk.
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