Mystical Tides

Poetry, short stories revealing mystical inner emotions flowing through our veins - then cascading over the oceans of our time and spaces.

WINTER'S GHOST

Autumn moon

incautious in the dark river

Winter's ghost walks

with a covered face

and silver bones wait in all animals

to be bone cloth upon her shoulder

wait for her happiness in that they are silver

AN ANCIENT SUN

Drink in the heat of an ancient sun 

held in the cold fire of water rising 

from earth and rock

Spilling over your cupped hands

and drawn to lips and tongue

Pouring water's memory

of the azure mist it fell from

into the chalice of your flesh

Turning your eyes skywards 

with desire 

for the freedom it was born of

THE ORACLE'S MIRROR

The oracle's mirror 

waiting for the Earth to unveil her 

The wolf's howl over snow 

The quiet place inside you - 

the vast knowing of the soul

DREAMS ARE LIKE THE OLD STORIES

Dreams are like the old stories where wolves are seekers always running, and women carry fire in their bare hands and light the dark paths before them.

Old stories hold that the birds will fly all the miles of the world to tell your secrets to the rising moon, and men will walk over oceans of ice to find one truth.

THE FIRES OF NIGHT

The fires of night

through distance dance

ghosts who still know how to sing

MY BEST GARMENTS WERE MADE OF ICE

My best garments were made of ice

falling in translucent snowdrifts

- encase the evidence of years

attempt to preservation

But cannot cease 

the Earth that flows 

in liquid demolition

Glistening ice that

breaks on the greater movement 

and the continents shift

and the change is all consuming

and the fire rivers reform

and the form itself does own

no garments timeless 

SELKIE

Alone, the cold body of the selkie man lay upon the sand, so like the drowned one the widow had called for.

For her longing, he was hauled upon the sand, exposed to the moonlight.

The selkie strained in fraught movements and human form broke from the gleaming seal fur.

Undeniably he bore the image of the widow's lost husband and spoke with the sounds of the dead man's voice.

She hailed back from the rocks.

Shadows accumulating beyond the moon's ability to reform.

Colours were washed from sight and silver crashed through her, colder than snow dreams of being.

In the dark, the ocean became the ro...