October 21 - Cold Morning Walk

The snap and crackle of Bonfire Night starts to seer along the draw of winter horizons, toasting the frost that Jack built in the twinkling twilight of midnight as the fishing boats begin to row home each night through the shoals of wishing stars, that rise and fall in the depths of our dreams whispered each night and every night as we sail closer to home, unseen, unaware of the slanting sunshine growing lower to the Hooverville Horizons which threaten to swallow us whole through these Celtic mists. The change of seasons are never more visible when standing on the top of the world.

The snows of Narnia have yet to howl, but the wolves are running, and geese are getting fed. Roads that rise to meet you, decieve without flattery, daring to conjure intoxicating wonder with the simple lefts and rights, through the fox's red lair, whoring and haring through the freezing air, uncaring past the Roman cairn that still sleeps here, half forgottern with needles of pine holding at bay the mourning legions of Senatus PopulusQue Romanus down in this mossy earth of Wales, pinned to stone like Arthur's word to return to this land and save the Lady of the Lake from drowning into oblivion... will the prophesies of Merlin ring true once again?

Songs of blackbird sing with sound, overground and underfoot, unbroken in beauty and unspoken in deed, darts of colour flashing with flushing red breast robin chirping and bobbing, nest-building in earnest along roads never ending, voyaging upwards to where the rumours of Gnosis are still glacier given, shawn from the hew and crying of cat and the owl, wise old buzzards circle like mewing Kites, prowling for prayers, present in thoughts, seeking out moments when the thaw of love burns bright in the darkness of Albion's communion with Deus, or Dios, destitute with having, destined to know nothing other than a gratitude in being.



What a place to be.