A sharpened blade at the coming of age.

 A letter, to my daughter on her eighteenth birthday, hopefully dispelling the myth that the gift of steel could possibly be a curse. Based on superstitious nonsense and nothing more, it is the gift of freedom, responsibility resides in the hands of whoever wields the weapon, the gift of that symbol marks the passing of time and trust gained through reciprocal love and loyalty.

Look to your ancestors people, reason and not the broken words of fools shall be the true scripture.

To My eldest Daughter.

Well, here we are at the turning of the tide; it is now Eighteen years since You chose to be a part of our lives.

It has not always been an easy ride but no voyage worth its salt ever is, for it is by the traps and pitfalls that we truly learn, the mistakes we make and the difficulties we may encounter, all serve to ultimately enrich our lives and forge us into the creatures of potential we are.

But you were no mistake my love, through good times and bad, it has always been a pleasure to share this life with you, and long may that continue, but now it is by your choice that you stay and no longer ours. In reality it was your choice all along and I thank you with all my heart for choosing us.

I give to you the gift of a knife, this is more than a tool to cut, it is a symbol of your right to bear a weapon, a symbol of trust and given in love, you will carry this symbol for the rest of your life and remember who it is you are. It is shaped like a leaf, it may be blown upon the winter winds far from home, but you will always remember the tree from which it fell, our tree my love, of which you are no small part.

Remember that leaf in difficult times and it will bring strength, remember the branch from which it unfurled and you will find your way home. For whatever you do and wherever you are I shall be always watching for you, a warm bed and a hearty meal shall always greet you and my home is your home evermore. If you need me, look to the Hawk and I am there, if you are lost, look to the sky and my star will guide you.

So tread with care my own sweet child and the world will reward you with riches beyond compere, perhaps not gold and silver but those denied to other folk, Love, companionship and trust is the greatest wealth, action not circumstance will provide, you know this already, as your own heart is your greatest virtue.

This world is a greater place with you in it, so once more I thank you for choosing us, for if I were to make that choice having known you this long, I would choose you again.

t

luxxg

 

So, Time passes, the wheel turns. As another young woman takes her steps into the world, responsibility does not end here for this student of eternity, but to know I must still watch and guide as my precious little bird takes flight upon the wind, as to which way she flies, well that is up to her.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

 

A Fool at journeys end.

Upon the rough twisted edge of the abyss I stand.
Dawn breaks the change of man.
Beyond the reach of the beloved and upon the wings of destiny,
we Fly.
Head long, straight into the arms of Fate.
To stand upon that distant land,
To knock upon the castle doors.
Many rivers to cross,
many mountains to climb.
A road less travelled to a destination rarely seen.
That blessed isle, that perilous realm.

Pray be with me now,
for this holy fool does stand or fall at your will.
An Infant soul, to the arms of his mother goes.
I would beg you now to be kind,
to hold me in your love,
not brush me aside as autumn leaves to the wind,
Ash to this storm.
I am the clay to be shaped,
the sword in the stone.
Mould be, Temper me.
I am yours.

Until we meet again.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony Macleod.

The sword in the stone.

Blood veined stone, hewn from chthonic realm, glows and iridescent sparks of promise adorned, callused hands and damp brow gaze upon, turning, inspecting, this gift of earth.

She is born.

This Forge of clay, the flames of inspiration dance within, as this melting, smelting womb of transformation ignites, it is though one of the chosen has captured the sun.

She burns.

Heat Intense below the acrid smoke, tears at the lungs and scorches the skin, broken she is placed within, black fuel and the gasping, wheezing breath of man.

She breathes.

Bellowed wind, forced in to this hell through a mouth Iron born as she, the crack of the whip, and screaming release, this heart of clay beats once more, no flames of desire only doom for the flesh, hope for the ploughman and the warriors arm.

She feels.

The serpent she comes, emerging tentatively at first, feeling her way, beneath and beyond Vulcan's mound, slowly to begin then a rush forward into the world, she scorches all she touches, steam consigned to the void, sand becomes glass upon her demon touch, she journeys forth then.

She waits.

Hammers fall, a cacophony, a symphony, a riot of sound, the tap tap tap of the blacksmith's tune, the cling clang clattering music of steel upon steel, woodsmoke and sweat fill the air, and that gentle gasp of wonder, of all those who would hope to take her for their own.

She is shaped.

Water's sweet kiss and the rasp of stone, razor sharp edge reflected moon born anew striding among the ancestor souls, held up to the morning sun and kissed by her touch.

She lives.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony.

One perfect moment.

It is colder this morning, my brothers oath echo's within my ears, borne of love and loyalty, an honest petition to the great lady of light.
A bright crimson orange scar, tears its way across the eastern sky, feathered fellows dance and chatter in the grasping air, haste and a sense of urgency at the taste of autumn's change.
Preparation for shifting times, journeys far and winter's icy bite, we all make ready.

That pale blue atmospheric shield that hides the stars, so that we may gaze at this bright emerging world seems so distant, That washed out bolt of cloth that awaits the vibrant bright dyes of the rising sun, does make all else seem razor sharp, keen edged and crisp in this half light liminal beauty.
Luciferaian Radiance, creeps up the Ash's stalwart frame and the mighty oak is raised high as queen of the forest, bathed within fiery tones, she would rule this world.

I become ready, prepared for this change, soon will come the time when this old tattered leather shell is shaken of in the blissful light of transformation, to move beyond and bask in pools of Venusian light once more, to set foot upon new lands, familiar to the soul yet strange upon the eyes, to walk with my brother, and hear his words spoken to my ear and not upon the winds.

I am within her grasp. Her mighty strength wraps itself around my spine, tendrils creep between each and every joint and into my being, moving, living within me, held in my mothers arms, the cradled infant at peace with the world.
And yes, change requires sacrifice, and like the long tailed acrobats that grace the summer skies of our land, I too must depart for autumn shores, I too will give all of myself, I too will take all that she would bestow upon me. A thousand miles I would go, for just one glimpse of her beauty, one kernel of truth.
To the ends of this earth and further still, just to touch the bright hem of her cloak, to walk with her for one perfect moment, and hold it all for all times to come.

Preparations are made.

I am ready for winters change.

Flags,Flax and Fodder. Tony

Homecoming

Fire burns, in hearth and heart, reflected in the eyes and faces of the many beloved, gathered about it's warming flames as shadows dance and leap upon the walls of our hall.
Vapour hits the air with a bubbling hiss as hot skin and transforming sinew, releases its virtue to the hot orange coals below. Woodsmoke and steam rise to the flags and straw rooftop then linger, above this joyful band of brothers and sisters, as busy weavers make their way to avoid the hot damp, the charred scent of mans appetite for flesh pushes them deep into the high corners to weave their magic in comfortable bliss.

It seems to have been a while, but now the mead flows and honey sweetened ale is consumed and spilt, some by the hap hazard near drunken revelry, some for those before and a drop for those to come, a drop for the old ones, and several for the winds, huzzah! the toast for those many who would carry us to richer lands, one day to the great hall of the gods, but not today.

Beyond the stones, the earth lies crisp with hints of silver, dark trodden soil illuminated by the moon in perfect reflection of that heavenly spectacle above, accented, diamond white sparkling gems that shift and move beneath the face of Cain, that shrine to our ancestors, that map to our lives, that guiding sky.
Old Toby raises his nose to the wind as the smell of revelry reaches his senses, desire to sate his hunger remains for a second but the danger is too great, tonight he waits for the midden pile to be refreshed and then to dine among his kin.

Safe and warm, beyond the fox's gaze, a cup of horn is raised as the old chieftain is remembered, another for the King upon the hill, within castle walls of impenetrable stone and safe from the concerns of other tribes, once again to our gracious lord, another to his lady fair and many many more to this raggle taggle bunch who fill this place with vibrant laughter and life itself, for we are gathered home at last, the many as one we become, united in this flesh and fire banquet, for now and all times to come.

I partake of the feast,  hot meat, my mouth exalts at this divine pleasure, salted fat runs down my chin, this revered tribute to our continued voyage, its essence, screaming through my every fibre, I fill my tired weary boots, tonight we eat, tonight the famine passes, tonight we remember our own.
Thankful for the company and for the beast we devour we remember our own.
We consume this flesh and its virtue with hope and love, the bonds of family, flows through us to become us.

Blood brown, bark skinned, bristle brushed backed ploughman. within the upturned furrows of forest drear, of upended sod and broken branch, wise excavator of the mysteries, devourer of wisdom and rugged companion of the dark terrible beauty that is the enchantress of men.
Midnight wanderer, secret seeker, path finder, Iron boned, bright lamp of the hidden road, god bearing, rule breaker, earths own herald.
We devour you, as your spirit consumes our selves.

For this merry band.

Remembers.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.

Danger, may contain nuts.

Consider for a moment, those implications and complications of the mystical path.Were we, as operators to consider in this modern age the health and safety, blame someone else, I couldn't possibly take responsibility, risk assessment factors, demanded within even the lowly village fete culture of todays western society .
Those simple pleasures of rural life now tied up with food safety legislation, fire risk, possible slipping, pointless bureaucratic nonsense, serving to remove control from the grasp of the individual, come to mother policies, nanny state nightmare.

Our own mysterious roads are fraught with such matters, but to ourselves we look to grasp that light, take those chances, for if we fall it is written, if we scald it will be known.
Dark nights gathered around bright blazing fires, sparks lifted upon the wind circle round, high and low among the stones and often come to rest on the clothes of the chosen, mostly unnoticed within the acrid smoke of the young flames until this holy marker finds its heat and the air around clears, tiny parts of the whole drift up to the heavens in mockery of our voyage. Thankfully, the polyester shell suit is not the desired attire for such occasions, cotton and wool do no generally combust under such circumstances, if such cares were a concern we could not focus upon that work, that common thread that brings family together.

Wind, rain, snow, sharp objects, precarious wet grass underfoot, a possibility of sunstroke, rare but to be considered. Tired hungry devotees, fixed in one purpose, turn and move as one being, long gown and feathered cloak within dangerous proximity of Prometheus's gift, but thankful for its warmth or hypothermia might mean another fall, we know we will rise, so why worry, if she comes to take us we are ready, there is no fear.

High hills far from the beaten track, inspiration takes us far beyond the ambulance's grasp as we ourselves reach to the sky, often alone or far from family, cliff climbing, cave descending craziness.
Comfort zone, Tish, what's a comfort zone to one who would touch the void, which of course could contain every nightmare, fear, failure, the monsters of your imagination and security, perhaps even those hopes and successes you have always dreamed of, imagine that, nice things in the places reserved for terror in the popular comfortable imaginings if those who never had the stones to take a peek,comfort zones are for pussys and we don't need them,ha ha.
To run with wild abandon along the tracks of our ancestors is our love, to share our meals, to drink from the same cup, I know, I can see the vicar now, sanitising the chalice as each confirmed approaches for that taste of blood, can there really be a faith in god if such concerns are considered holy.

To reach out to that which calls, and maybe discover why, where the fearful fool would throw salt at this perceived enemy from his "protective bubble of radiant blue light", we don't have one of those on our risk assessment code of good conduct, it blocks out all the good stuff, its a sanitised chalice for the child who is not allowed near the flames, wouldn't want to let him burn-Would we? Do we throw rocks at hunch backed strangers because we don't like the look of them, or the salvation army band for the racket and din it makes as twenty would be musicians attempt to produce a "tune". Crikey, if we could do that it might actually be worth watching the X factor, deluded morons, talentless proles, stoned to death upon live television,actually doesn't sound that far off, does it? It goes without saying that those rocks would have no sharp edges as the hurling crowd might injure itself.

So why in this madness, do we do what we do?
There is no reward without risk and true, honest, straight up, no nonsense Faith takes all fear from our hearts. It is a scathing world that looks at the mountaineer, the parachutist, the diver and asks Why? Why take those risks?
The truth of theirs is like our own, we do it because we must, choice is really an illusion, one granted to those who would make Charlie Darwin wince, and he was a spiritual man also.

Flags ,Flax and fodder. Tony.

Two leaves.

Imagine if you will.

Two leaves falling from the high effulgent canopy of midsummer's crowning glory.
Caught up by the breeze, carried by the swirling current, dancing winds of change, opportunity, fire and air.
Destination unknown to them both, hidden, far below in the silent shadows, among whispered words and dark promise.

Two leaves upon solstice fair, pass beyond and away from the illusory comfort and shelter of this woodland height, to dance with the Devil in the glades below, to live and love with truth and honour, among those fallen, once lost rangers of the soul, choicest of companions upon this lonely road.
Far Far from this maddening crowd that grabs and grasps at hope and delusion, rubbing, swaying as one impossible creature, content in its discontent, this world where illusion wears the crown of kings and where there is safety in the flock.

Two leaves rise up and down upon the heady thermals of summer's glory, spinning, twisting, turning, flipping, this strange tide, this spiral dance, born of need and ever moving, closer now to the rivers of change, those stony shores where the dispossessed find solice among the paths of the wise.

Two leaves, held within the safe hands of one who would catch the fallen, one who would place them where it is they should need to rest.
Immersed in the shelter to which they belong, this strange brotherhood, this sublime collective, far beyond the hum drum, rustle and rattle of those who chose to remain "connected" to the hoard, far from the stinking piles of rotting mulch that decay upon this forest floor, those that allowed others to make the choices and forgone were their own, in finer favour of comfortable lies, deaf to the word and blind to the sight, this land of great terror and fearsome dread.

Two leaves that together did fall.
Two leaves that together stand  side by side, back to back.
Two leaves that have fallen before.
Two leaves that found the place where they fit.

Imagine if you will, Two leaves that do journey together and were nearly home.

Flags Flax and Fodder. Tony.