By the sand and pebble shore there’s a cliff,
Yellow ochre, at it’s base a narrow margin of sandy turf.
This place sings with a quiet light infused voice.
It drew my attention by singing an
semi rhythmic
I looked and saw that this song was sung by
landing on
beer can.
Water, high up, trickles from the rock 
With a flow so slight as to consist of
A light shower whose drops, 
Bead curtained,
Suspended in air for a dizzying timeless moment
Before landing in a shallow trench in the turf below.
I’m not the only one to notice this quiet song.
Others have placed flat beach pebbles
In circles on the turf and,
Tucked up at the bottom of the cliff  
In the angle where the rock joins the grass,
Some broken egg shells left there by crows,
As well as a discarded mussel shell:
Offerings of a sort.
I sit next to a sycamore
Which makes it’s own hymn,
With green flowers suspended from palmate leaves
Held out against the empyrean blue,
Sung to the counterpoint of waves falling gently against the shore.
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Happy Late Beltane

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I’m not big on following the festivals. Despite my good intentions I often end up with nothing organised. But I like to use them to mark where we are in the year, which is sort of the point anyway.

Each year spring is a little different. This year has been cold and dry so far. Consequently, the usual blossoms have appeared in a compressed time frame. In the last couple of weeks daffodils, blackthorn and primroses have been in flower and now it’s time for the bluebells.

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There is a spot in the wood where a steep escarpment drops suddenly to a raised beach where the cover of sessile oak, ash and beech gives way to an area of mostly younger sycamore closer to the shore.

Here the sound of waves on the pebble shore blends with the sound of the wind in the tree tops. Even on the best of days a chilly easterly breeze will blow up the slope bringing with it faint clammy whisps of haar.

If you follow the deer tracks which trace a secretive route along the shoulder of this drop off it is possible to be feel a more or less gentle overshadowing by woodland spirits. Other parts of the wood are more secretive and have spirits that would be happy to see you gone yet this place is usually welcoming.  But don’t be fooled this is a spirit haunted place all the same.

People talk about the re-enchantment of the world. But the world has never stopped singing. We have to learn to listen is all.

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By Way of Explanation.

I feel the need to explain myself.

This is what happens when a pagan of no fixed tradition tries to craft a daily practice from the following ingredients:

  • Nature mysticism
  • Thaumaturgy
  • Theology

In this case, these items take the oddly specific shape of revival druidry, chaos magic and neoplatonism – with a wee smidgen of process theology thrown in.

Actually, of course it’s all a lot messier than this in practice.

As everything usually is.

Messier, I mean.

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