Thursday, 9 August 2018

It takes time to heal, the inedible nature of books.



 It's been a long while, since this one has sat before this machine in vain attempt to conjure words from within an addled brain and wandering mind.
Light and time has continued to wind its way, often unobserved by this wanderer but continues nonetheless, a sound unheard by one often dances upon the ears of another, playing mindful song leaving only the choice of whether to dance or just simply listen.

A lost and shattered soul that lay in many pieces scattered upon this sand, each torn and broken fragment blown to every shadow in every world, it takes time indeed to heal, to become a spectre of what you once were is but a start, a seed, to search out the keys, the secrets to life, survival and forward to live and love once more.

Nothing is impossible.
Only, it takes time indeed to heal, far longer than many would assume, far longer than this travelling fool could have imagined, and yet in the darkest hour, am I whole, did I collect all the pieces?

Or, did I find new pieces that would fit, smooth the roughened edges of the soul to enable it to manifest some kind of completeness.

Questions that are for others to answer, I know my truth, your own truth will be different from mine.

And so among the scorched fields of late summer I walk still, within the shades cast by the moon you might catch a glimpse, and upon the wind you may well hear my voice, if you have an ear to listen that is.

This wanderer in the wilderness has survived by the generosity and patience of good people, a debt to the beloved and a deeper connection to wyrd, love and a return to the realm of the living, the key found and the door cast aside.
And yet in truth a deeper sadness remains, to think upon a time when others may have thought to cast this wretch aside, in pursuit of other needs perhaps, or a loss of patience, understanding, these, once again are riddles not destined for this one to answer. Only regret haunts this healing mind, and yet that said may be not his own. Forced still to take the decisions for himself, to keep that choice his own, perhaps that was the design, it was what was needed, Wyrd in all things, perhaps that at least is clear.

It takes time indeed to heal,  patience is a hunters virtue and not often considered to be one of the academic, and yet without the hunter the learned would become hungry, man cannot eat books after all.

Flags, Flax and Fodder.
Tony Macleod.



Thursday, 22 December 2016

The Desert rose blooms from lost seeds of hope.

I watched, as one by one the grains of sand fell through the glass of time.

I heard them fall, each one a hope, each one turning to dust, descended into that abyss, this world became dark and the music was gone. Inspiration deserted me, a love lost, ground to shreds upon the the mill of time, this part of something became a part of nothing within that mist, that acrid smoke.
I choked upon it, welcomed the end, searched for oblivion, and yet within this lost world, this longest darkest night of the soul I found hope once again could bloom.

Two all but broken things, one chance taken, one opportunity grabbed by the starving, both hands reaching out, hungry for hope, for possibility.
Two worlds which circle one another in a cruel dance of mistrust born of love and reared by loss, could this really be ?
Two minds that see though the same eyes, angry as these fires of hell burned around them, those icy flames that in truth offer no warmth.

And yet, from this pit of despair we climbed, each hold more fragile than the last, until we hit that gentle slope, there, we could feel the faint breeze of relief upon our faces, warmer now as it flowed across this arid land, we spoke of dreams, we ran toward the shadows and embraced the light within, we held each other as this sun was rising, cutting through the fog, moving forward, slowly at first, then to run like children, breathe the air of life.

We were back.

This fragile earth upon which we walk did welcome our storm, and I once again heard music upon the wind, faint words whispered into my ear. Those who loved us began to circle our fire, this darkest of nights became brighter as they too breathed a sigh of relief.

And so, it seems, we are what this world has made us, good and bad, sometimes we must roll the dice, take that leap of faith, for the impossible is indeed possible, we hold what we have been given close to our hearts because it is the fibre of our souls, we cannot ever forget those who are no longer present,we just need to remember that love is the sharpest blade, the keenest edge, the true forge of what remains of humanity.
Two broken things can become one splendid thing, two lost souls can find their way out of the wilderness or even simply learn to love being a part of it.

I count myself a lucky man, for I have loved, I have been loved, I lost that love and my heart was shattered into a thousand pieces, one by one they return, the sands of time defy gravity and sing themselves upwards into the sphere that is living. A part of me died yet now I am alive, as if fate herself had listened to those screams of pain and decided that within her pity she would deal me a second chance.

I found love again, I found passion and hope, I found music and inspiration. It was there all along, but nothing comes to the ones who wait for it to come to them, every journey must start with reason.

Love is like the desert rose, it may have thorns and yet it is able blossom within the harshest of environments, and when you are lucky enough to gaze upon its beauty you know that you can live again.


Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony. xxxxx

Tuesday, 4 October 2016

A wealthy man, The bones of Kvasir and the Wyrm's treasure.


Tony Macleod



Bright autumn sun, calls forth the coming of winter.
The cooling wind arrives upon the wings of geese, drawing warmth from the land.
She whispers to the world, "prepare, for the darker times are coming".
The arboreal realm begins to lose its emerald cloak, soon to crowned in golden hue, and then to fade.

Change is upon us dear friends.

Softer the loam in the woodland glade, the signs of hoof, of pad and claw, upset the fallen leaves and twisted thorn, to tell the story of the ones who pass.
Upon broken branch and upturned stone, there lies a saga worthy of a Earl.

Never to be forgotten.

Children of the earth, the time of the feast is nearly upon us, fill your bellies and you will weather the famine, take all you are given, for every gift is a treasure to hold.
Take fire where it is offered, the comfort of the hearth, the shelter of the hospitable, the tales that are told before the crackling flames.

For all are gifts my friends.

Perhaps the Wyrm's own hoard can never be held by hands alone, yet the heart may hold it all.
When trinkets have turned to dust, that sweet nectar will still taste as the bones of Kvasir, inspiration through the darkest night, slaking the thirst of the one who truly holds that golden trove.

So we share this horn my friends.

And so, beggar I may be, within that wilderness I had not a thing, I partook of this game and she won.
And yet she had mercy, for I am a wealthy man, in truth she took nothing, for what I hold is a gift beyond all the silver in the world, I have been loved and I am loved.

My heart overflows, with the dragon's wealth.

I will gladly share these jewels my friends.


Autumn, by Victoria macleod  

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony

Wednesday, 31 August 2016

A broken man, a rat beneath the table and a sword red with blood.



I remain a broken man,
Torn into pieces by the winds of circumstance.
Alike to the old one, a sacrifice, broken upon that wheel of fate.
And there lies this truth.

Perhaps within the shattered soul, hope lingers yet.
For there are those who I have forsaken that forgive this errant fool.
Those who indeed did bring me food, when I was empty,
brought me mead when inspiration seemed but a distant memory,
those dearly beloved that tended these wounds.
They tend them still.

And there lies a far deeper truth.
The love of family, this jewel of the emerald forest.
Blood and bone will always hold.
For if it had failed, if it were all but a show.
This broken man would be food for the Raven.
A name only , a person "never-more".

This wound still festers.
Perhaps it always will.
Yet I know that this weight is shared by the beloved.
and by this act it becomes far less to carry.
So let none cast doubt upon mine own.
together we remain and stronger we become.

This Shield wall stands.
Oak and Iron, tooth and claw.
Spears eager to seek sweet justice reward.
To sometime dine in retribution's burning glory,
Or perhaps to keep that wolf at bay
For it is the bright steel that shall keep our banner high.

Let it so be known that.
The fish of the land shall retreat to their holes.
no longer to sate themselves upon another's loss,
or to beg for scraps from the Kings own table.
My Axe shall be scarlet, my sword will run with gore.
Vermin is not welcome in our halls.



Many thanks and much love to those whom have supported this fool over the past months, Damaged goods I may be, but without your love and support I would be gone, you have all forgiven my anger and nursed my wounds as I have already said, and without you all I would be gone.
To you all, you are my family, you have my love and my loyalty. My sword and my heart (what is left of it ) shall always be yours. 

Flags, Flax and Fodder.
Tony.






Saturday, 5 March 2016

The Bitter taste of Fates cruel bite.

Tonight the stars seam to tear their way through a curtain of night, yet to my own mind it is for naught.
Bright lunar beams rip the clouds to pieces and yet there is a far greater darkness that would block them from my view.
I cannot dance beneath that light, for of all the radiant beams that have ever shone there is one gone as ash from this world.

My heart lies broken upon a most terrible storm, I played my hand and left the hall half the man I once was.
For nothing is what it would seem, no amount of pious devotion or fire lit vigil will buy you any favour from the gods, they are at best but shades and ash themselves, cruel reminders of the vile injustice that flows through human kind, the great depart to leave the foul detritus of this confused race floating on the waters of despair.

Today I hate this world with all the passion I have left, and yet it is I that have spared my beloved from this pain, this hurt, lonesomeness and annihilation, now obligation becomes the reason for life for I can find little else.

I have stood upon the shoulders of your gods, I have gazed into the distant beyond, this answer is simple.
It is what it is, as my dear beloved would say.
Within this anger there is clarity, I see clearly the delusion born of false hope that will ultimately pass within a flood of tears.
I hate you for your futile persistence, warmth found only in the realms of another kind of ignorance , face it. Do not cheat fate, for ultimately no servant of that cruel mistress can, the price is to high and you will learn that at your peril.

She told me once, that the waters of the Lethe were good enough for her.
The wisest and most beautiful soul I have ever known has allowed fate her cruel will, and if to swim within that water is good enough for her then who I am to ever question that, for it will be good enough for this one also.

None shall ever see her like again, none will ever match that purest of souls, that beautiful heart. My own heart is broken and I shall never be complete for as long as this world keeps me here.
And yet I loved her, I love her still.
Fortune did shine upon me for time before fate tore her from my arms.

I have loved the best of us.

Wednesday, 5 August 2015

Thoughts of a life in love.



Some things remain unsaid, sleeping dogs left to lie, far happier in ignorance than to be awoken in sadness , only then to rage and bite with vengeance's bitter whip.

Not our story my love, this was never our way.

Do you remember?

That fated moment, caught between the dust and fumes of the city,
the smoke grey sky that cast no shadow that day.
Beneath the concrete towers when fortune smiled and our eyes met for the first time,
I still feel the tremble of my heart, that knowing.
I still hear the stolen voice that whispered “She's the one”,
It whispers to me still my love.

The greater part of our lives within each others company, yet we tire not of that gift,
How could we reject such as Fate has given and as such we celebrate still.
I can feel the impatience, waiting for that telephone call.
do you remember the letters we wrote?
The songs we sang?
We sing them still my love.

We have seen peoples rise and others fall, feast and famine.
Yet within your arms it can all be forgotten.
We were children then, amazed by the flames beneath the bright night sky,
never feared of the fires tongue, a forge to weld our love,
Nocturne's witness within sight of the Hare's dance.
The Dance continues my love.

The wheel turns.
Our own forest has truly blossomed.
Yet still we walk these wild hills, gaze in wonder at the stars,
bathed in the light of those dearest souls who love us for who we are.
The fire casts its light upon the face I love,
my heart jumps as the salmon leaps when you come into my arms.
This fire she burns still my love.

The best may be yet to to be seen.
For it is the beauty of your being that never fades,
I raise my cup to you, may it flow eternally as our love has done.
For at the end of days, I would give it all,
A thousand lifetimes for one look into your eyes.
I would tear down the halls of the gods,
To hold you once more in my arms.
My Love.



Friday, 31 July 2015

Sweet breath upon a bitter wind




Wild Wood.

Far from speechless within the Moor.
Tortured, Twisted, dressed in rags, the Ghost of our ancestors stand.
From holy seed, once borne upon and ancient wind.
A promise faintly whispered, far beyond the haunted dreams of Abraham's fated son.
This treasured truth does stand as like and yet within the moss covered stones,
when all else does seem as futile noise,
falling amongst the bitter dust of civilisation's angry grasp.

Sweet honeyed scent, soft and warm descends from the high Tor.
Flowing Blood and bone washes into the wood,
standing tall Oak, Ash and Thorn stretch to take it all.
An Arboreal sigh, welcome relief, a deeper breath and a remembered thought.
The Granite Giants shift themselves as memory stirs,
they rise and turn with the fond recall of lives never to be forgotten,
Ancestral voices raised in triumph .

Gently I walk, within the footsteps of the wise amongst the hidden paths.
I glimpse the shade of a white hare, I hear the song of the wish hounds pushing me further.
My soul grasps at the rock, reaches deep into the loam, I am anchored to this place, rooted.
Lost in the wilderness, I am home,
foundling far beyond your space and time, one with all that matters still.
It is I who would haunt this wood, I that would sing the song of fear.
It is I who would hunt the weary traveller and draw him to his doom.
For I am the eyes that follow you, the noise that makes your heart leap.
Foe, Fiend or friend, what would you have me be.

For I am at one with the wild wood
As for yourselves, who knows ?