August 11, 2018

Nothing in this world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.

W. Somerset Maugham
The Razor’s Edge

the Horned God

July 28, 2018

I’m the Horned God,
I’m the face in the trees,
I’m the breath of the wind that rustles the leaves,
I’m the Green Man
in the wildwood I roam,
Cernunnos, I’m Pan and I’m Herne.

Damh The Bard


July 19, 2018

Baroque merry-go-round with its painted mermaids
and the over-exuberant, tinny sounds , so flashy and garish they
haunt my long dark hours.
The black water at the edge of the
Ghost pier lapping or lashing, there’s
careering starlings seeking shelter against
a grey slate sky and waves of predators.
As evening’s inevitability tells us of
the coming threats of night, far from the funfair, grinding to a halt,
the sickening streetlights are ghastly in the yellowing evening air.
Along the streets of rollicking revellers,
you’re seeking something that would free you. But
there’s others planning, lurking, waiting idly
in the shadows.
Among this sea town’s myths of endless partying, fun, this
dark underbelly of chaotic glee, your sudden newfound friends
are jovial, watchful, promising.

The party’s over.
On the bleak beach now with the encroaching tide you’re
Daytripper, tripped out and tricked you’re calling and calling
until silenced.
Until the waves take your body out from the pebbles, out
from the link between land and sea
entering that Other, shoreless, wild, vast , water world.
That dissolution.

Gina Wisker

Elżbieta Niezgoda

The harp is played by Welsh fairies to an extent unknown in those parts of the world where the harp is less popular among the people. When any instrument is distinctly heard in fairy cymmoedd it is usually the harp. Sometimes it is a fiddle, but then on close examination it will be discovered that it is a captured mortal who is playing it; the Tylwyth Teg prefer the harp. They play the bugle on specially grand occasions, and there is a case or two on record where the drone of the bagpipes was heard; but it is not doubted that the player was some stray fairy from Scotland or elsewhere over the border. On the top of Craig-y-Ddinas thousands of white fairies dance to the music of many harps. In the dingle called Cwm Pergwm, in the Vale of Neath, the Tylwyth Teg make music behind the waterfall, and when they go off over the mountains the sounds of their harps are heard dying away as they recede.

Wirt Sikes

British Goblins: Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions

on the edge of things

June 19, 2018

I sense a creature in each room I enter, just on the edge of things. It watches wide-eyed as I pass, still. Claw marks on doorways. It does not breathe. It will not look away.

Benjamin Clime

a strange harvest

June 16, 2018

Titiana by Johann Heinrich Füssli

Fairy tales are more than moral lessons and time capsules for cultural commentary; they are natural law. The child raised on folklore will quickly learn the rules of crossroads and lakes, mirrors and mushroom rings. They’ll never eat or drink of a strange harvest or insult an old woman or fritter away their name as though there’s no power in it. They’ll never underestimate the youngest son or touch anyone’s hairpin or rosebush or bed without asking, and their steps through the woods will be light and unpresumptuous. Little ones who seek out fairy tales are taught to be shrewd and courteous citizens of the seen world, just in case the unseen one ever bleeds over.

Sarah Taylor Gibson
Blog Entry

Spirit Medium

June 14, 2018

Now that my pen is made of glass
I pray to write of this loud tree
and not simply fashion — blues and organdies
and other appurtenances — taffeta, pagoda sleeves.

Now branches scratch the bowl of sky, leaves
massed loosely in torsade, flounces
deepening to knitted flowers, dead hair
braided into wigs — a tree on fire with birds.

Nothing sounds like this loud tree — branches
have grown richer, louder still. Each bird like
a smoke-stained leaf, like mittens worn at meals.

Flocked with birds, the tree remains. Wings puff
and return like crinolines in wind.

Life now: delicate butterfly, a hairnet made
of my own hair, parasols raised everywhere,
tasselled roots and ribbon ruches, sugar-lead,
bone dust, feather. Day and night, the sky
makes permanent the tree’s singular pattern:

a dress burnt into skin. Now that this pen
is made of glass, I cannot measure
a sunbeam — I cannot catch a flame
with these lace fingers. Light darts from every
reflective surface like a velocity itself.

Branching, birds, and since you left: everything
I wear is made of glass.

Still, your image has reached my eye so gently
inside this light. Upon this slant
of sun cutting across this page. My body burning
for you like a tree.

Once philosophers tried to weigh a sunbeam, built
a machine so delicate, thinner than a fly’s wing.
But the sunbeam left the sun more quickly, could not
be balanced on a scale. Love itself

is made of glass, is the burning tree. Ethereal lace,
brocade of all our seeing, weightless
yet still falling upon that sight, belongingness —

what is held by the beloved. What bright
light can be seen so clearly, unobstructed
like sunbeam passed through glass, or your
voice branching like the loudest tree, the place

where your hand lands so gently, then lifts off
before I even feel it. Like a thousand
ruffles pulled

over my head, like a thousand birds.

Sarah Messer


May 27, 2018

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking over harbour and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

magic in the air

May 26, 2018

Just feel the magic in the air and the power in the breeze, feel the energy of the plants, the bushes and the trees, let yourself be surrounded by nature at its best, calm yourself, focus and let magic do the rest.

Sally Walker
The Village Witch Blog