Patchwork Quilt Countryside, mists, castles, cathedrals, ruins like torn parchment revealing traces of places, chalices & palaces, steeping history in mystery, rising off the water, seeping between cobblestone, lurking in alleyways...like lost legends, stows for the stoic, stone rings, goddess dreams, crop circles bombarded by roundabout schemes.
Masked veils over fables, casked ales on tables, gargoyles guarding the Holy Grail, tors, meres, dales, cauldrons of tales, whispers of that once told, like a thousand year old yew tree...it's berries poison - it's bark tonic...to each extending life and death - a dose of the ironic.
The wise old woman goddess still has fire in her belly, gifts in her hearth, the green man still exhales moss, drinks the dew. Some of us still light candles, fall to our knees, make offerings on lavender altars...flowers, apples, moons and tunes.
We journey through tunnels of transformation, a womb of agate crystals...surrendering this grieving, believing this passage leads to the promise that will resurrect spirituality from religion, awaken lost angels from apathy , will roll open the scroll that's been hidden. We will know what was once known, we will here the ancient songs awakening from the manuscripts of the muse, we will be instruments, we will sing vespers, we will pray poetry...until the ceilings of chapels crumble into chorus, until white horses ride these hills again...
unbridled as the wind.