Sunday, 2 December 2018
A bitter wind from the east blows memory out from the gathering dust, turning and dancing in the mind of this hapless fool, awakenings, realisation and knowing, life is different now.
Thoughts, as tears have left bitter tracks across the landscape of the soul and yet serve to remind us still that we are indeed alive and that life goes on regardless of whether we are or not.
Triumphs, achievements, new life and new beginnings, tinged with the bittersweet reminders of another life since departed. Indeed, it becomes far too easy to disappear into a insular world of self pity and woe unto I.
Easier still it becomes to demand an explanation, a retribution of attitude and treatment from another without once turning the spotlight upon our selves, is it not true that this journey through hell should become easier by taking our responsibilities to heart, admitting our failings and redressing a balance where ever possible?
The seed of haste has born forth the fruit of regret, a notion I once promised never to carry and yet as the proverb states I have my leisure in which to repent, much left unsaid, unfinished and unexplained, perhaps one day to atone for my own misgivings, to talk once more and to laugh beneath the same roof if not beneath the open sky.
All is not grim my friend, for below the iron grey sky we await the arrival of a new warrior, my eldest daughter's son, my own grandchild is upon his way, a new thread within the wyrd perhaps to shine far brighter that this tired line, which is exactly what both my children have done.
Never a day passes that I do not consider the people they are,the wonderful humans they have become. the strength and fortitude of ones so young, shield maidens both and an honour to call them my own.
And so we move to what may become a brighter future, let us base this world on communication and cooperation, not on loss and regret, let us talk by the fireside and listen to what we all have to say, listen to the song of the worlds, we are stronger together. A great man once told of the pain he felt wandering the wilderness on his own, I guess that to fully understand this one must (with some regret) walk in the wilderness also, I pray for that time to come to an end.
I shall look to my own failings, I will strive to become better than I am, for one day it is I that will be an ancestor to my people, perhaps one to be proud of, that is not for me to decide, and if we can all proceed thus then a cross word would be rare and an helping hand will be willing.
I shall carry my craft with pride and just maybe my own saga will be told.
Flags,Flax and Fodder.
Thursday, 9 August 2018
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.