Monday, 4 April 2011

The Belly of the Serpent, a Rabid dog and a good helping of Custard.

Beneath the shadow of the tired Kings and Queens of the spring, yellow crowns not quite as resplendent now among the green, blue and white of the Cornish hedges. Rising tides force the Ramsons to hang their heads and sigh upon the wind of anticipation, the green gowns they wear sway in the breeze, each in turn will take the form, which can only echo the expectant shape of a waiting mother who would glance from beneath her veil with hope and devotion at her swollen belly, she feels the growth of the life that will spring forth into the waiting world, a new thread becomes a part of the greater tapestry of creation.
The cauldron bubbles and simmers beneath our feet, the emerald hues of the land are only the cork that graces the vintage Champagne, shaken to the point that when the May comes, it shall come with an explosion that would make the enigmatic Mr Fawkes smile from ear to ear, something stirs deep in the belly of the Serpent, as we are all soon to discover.

Within the body that is home to my own soul there is a stirring to match the rising passions of our rural home, tolerance wants to take a break and the will of this one is eager to duel with any usurper that would offer his glove, in some issues mine have already been thrown down upon English soil, beware those who would raise Cain for I am not in the mood to turn the other cheek, bite me and I shall bite back, with the teeth of Cerberus!

As She sharpens her sickle yet to be seen among the stars of the night sky, this wanderer descends to a place of Oak, Ash and Thorn, to climb the tree from where I may but glance into the deepest of wells, the swirling vortex that lies beyond His eye, to gaze in awe at creation itself.
Behind that which sees all, there lies fire and ice, containing all destruction and chaos ,bringing order to this world.
The web is woven as the weavers weave this substance that has the name of Wyrd, sisters I salute you, for you produce the finest of cloth.
One brief glimpse is all I am allowed before I am hoisted from my mount, a blessing to be counted none the less, for how many can say that they have had such a boon.

There is wisdom upon the air, as ones dear to The Cunning man are sharing their own thoughts and inspiration upon the electronic superhighways of the globe, long over due; Shani, Stuart and Bran, feasts for the eyes and food for the soul, for whoever would dare to glimpse at Truth and be inspired there are links at the bottom of this page, Enjoy.

The Faith is based upon truth, There is no Blind faith within the craft of the Traditional Witch, that is to be left for others that have yet to remove the blinkers and take their fingers from within their ears, the proof is in the pudding and this pudding is one of pure delight, with a good serving of Custard.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.

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