Monday, 13 January 2020

A Black wing casts a shadow in the storm. A voice upon the sand.

The wind pushes through the trees of the coppice wood, the spirits of place eagerly diving for cover to escape the coming storm.
He watches, still in his composure, old one eye, master of the gallows tree, chieftain of the wild hunt and father of war, strong and silent his eerie gaze across the woodland realm, a thousand eyes stare back in awe as the sylvan realm takes a breath, The forest creaks to the sound of Tall trees bending to kiss the ground only then to stand tall before their backs are broken.
Woodsmoke brings an ethereal mist to this world, Ghosts dance to an unheard tune and an unseen vision is spoken of upon the wind, I listen with eager tension to what it says.

Another winter onslaught comes set to batter the windows of this home, furious anger conceived upon the great Atlantic, once more to tread havoc upon this already saturated isle.
And yet in but a day or two it shall become no more than a distant echo, trees will fall and the soil will move, wood to be chopped and earth to be dug, then like so much the whole affair will be forgotten.
It will be with a warm hearth that we remember this tempest, lost to the ether the anxiety and the fears to be replaced by a crackling fire, the company of the beloved and perhaps a story or a song.

I will remember always the words, caught upon the breeze, wisdom that came screaming within the gale, whispered in the dark or sung within  the bright light of day, I remember still the lamenting voice blown across the sea grass and sand to breech the Abbey walls of that windswept holy isle, not unlike the raiders we were in that moment, and I remember still the promises we made, the laughter and the love.

The storm it may pass and yet within the soul it can rage still, what is said cannot be unsaid and more importantly, what is felt cannot be undone,  unfelt.

We do what we have to, what is necessary, or at least what we think we have to or deem necessary at the time, always to dream that when the sky clears everything will be OK, that we have indeed made the right choices, used the correct words, sometimes the words used were the wrong ones, the choices made were made in error stuck within a moment of thick fog. yet despite this tumultuous weather the vision through the eyes of this one has become far clearer.

The storm came and went, the sky cleared and we chopped wood, dug the soil and reset the hearth.
This ones door remains always open to the true, an ear to hear a tale and a welcome at the fire.

A black wing casts a shadow, within that shadow burns the flame of kin,of honour, of home and welcome to any who would have it.
We tread the round, we sing the songs of our ancestors and we share the bounty that it brings, sometimes it takes a Storm to clear the way for something better, this is a beginning of a new story and not the end of an old one, I hope that there are many more chapters of that one still to wright.

Flags, Flax and Fodder.
Tony Macleod.
Clan of the black wing