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

From Regret and Sorrow, to the Clan of the Black wing.

 Midsummer's eve and the green is fit to burst, this year a hairs breath twixt fruitfulness and failure, we await the roll of that particular dice with all the anxiety of dog upon a slip, ready to run or stay upon the twists and turns of fate, hungry or sated, only time will be the judge of that riddle.

The skylark heralds the call of summer yet the cuckoo's voice may still be heard, seasons collide in this modern age of change and blame, this song of the world still gladdens the heart of this old warrior, for nothing stays the same and eager I am to dance with my oss once more.

Fate is an unpredictable mistress at times, it's cruel bite and bitter venom can leave the assailed in whirlwinds of confusion, actions are never without consequence and willingly we pay the price... Eventually.

I am truly sorry to those whom I offended, to those to whom I was cruel or inconsiderate, my judgement was floored, in truth I had no intention of being here now to even begin to contemplate these actions, yet my own Wyrd is not done, fate she finds a way and forward into the coils of time we go.
In my haste I shut many doors, other doors were shut for me, I live by the sword so be judged by the same I must, I hold no bitter fruit and hope that others too shall ponder upon the golden moments we shared and overlook the rusted iron of my own misjudgement, as I have said there is regret and there is much sorrow, what is Is ,so now we journey into what might be.

 On we move to a new age, each life we have is short and there is little time to achieve what we would like to achieve, or so the more ambitious amongst us might assume.
Separation from one family brings need fire to another, the healing balms took far longer to patch these wounds than I had hoped, I will always bear the deep scars of fate's own blade but it is now that I declare myself ready to walk the crooked paths once again.

It was my oldest friend, my dearest brother that urged me to not let my understanding of my Craft die with me, to forge ahead, keep going and leave a legacy that the ancestors would have been proud of.
A long while I have pondered upon this quest and have at last set foot among the briar's and thorn that beguile the hidden way, truth is that it feels as though I never left, truth is I never left I was only preoccupied.
I do not do this alone, a new family comes to the light, there is space a plenty for other travellers within the body of this dragon, so to old friend's and new folk alike I would bid you welcome aboard, behind fair wind or foul, beneath a black wing we shall go.

It is to the future we must travel, what has been done is done and we have perhaps urned some of life's hardest of lessons.
However, the wilderness is not a place to fear, it is a forge that rebuilds us better and stronger than we were, we fail in our lives if we wait for others to drag us from within its grasp, to take control of ones own destiny is the key, or perhaps roll over onto your back and expire, as individuals the choice is up to us.

So aside from the sorrow and regret, it is with love, honour and respect to my brothers and sisters of the craft that I step from the shadows and into the light once more. I wish every success in their own future and would joyfully hope that they would wish likewise to my own.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony MacLeod.
Clan of the Black Wing.

New beginnings,bitter fruit and the arrival.

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.
 Tony.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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 ?

Rise up and unite in the merry month of May.

The May tree is fat with promise in the garden of the Cunning man, blooms ready to burst forward and display their wonder, perhaps as soon as next week the crown upon that thorn shall shine.
And that sign alone shall pass as time to dance, to feel the loam of the woodland glade beneath feet that long for this life, a relief from the harsh trudge of the day to day, an escape into that elusive place that becomes as our souls, perhaps greater, we are entwined, enveloped in nature, our salvation if you will.
Yet how many do carry this gift at all times, have our own forays into the wild wood become as shallow as those who frequent other temples?
Has the Queen of the May become nothing more than a holy distraction from the world and yet do we have the right to block out everything else in search of our own indulgence?

Are you separate from the madding crowd, shrouded within your temple of green? do the masked rites of May shield you from the political rantings of an election battle or is it that you consider yourself to be "above and beyond" such concerns. Fool indeed if you believe so.
Do you think that your praxis actually benefits any other than yourself? that your time well spent in meditation and ritual might change the world?

Your world perhaps but not mine.

The rite is a crucible, meditation too, we learn about the self and prepare for the real world, it moulds and forms the self into being, what you do from then on is how you will be judged, there is no separation twixt here and there, one place within one time, out of space and out of time, all one thing, to separate it and box it up is to proclaim values that are irrelevant, further pointing to your own delusions.
But you like them don't you? it is why you persist in them after all, them and us I hear you cry, so where is that shout for true humanity in your world.

The one world philosophy is vital if we are to succeed as human beings, to allow separation is to fail completely and utterly, you are no hero if you are to let the world and all its terror pass unchecked while in pursuit of divine gifts.You are no Warrior who walks away from inevitable conflict. When you meet your God or stand before your ancestors and proclaim your priestly virtues, do you think they will be impressed, in awe of your pompous virtue? or will you stand agape when they ask "what did you actually do to make a difference to this hell", account for your world or be damned by all.

Small things do matter, the gift of kindness and understanding to a stranger, the provision of safety, a warm bed and a meal cost little and the rewards are great . We are Mankind and we should celebrate our commonalities not be fearful or disdaining of our differences. We should protect the weak, defend those who are unable to defend themselves, spread love and light through this world by actions and not ritual, that is for the self. So be it by the bullet or the ballot box, the sword or the pen, Act.

This world is smouldering, ready to burst into flames and does so in no small ways all the time, thankfully there are those who do their best to smother those flames and keep this castle from turning to ash, those who do not need to look beyond their comfortable middle class occultist lifestyles and act, those who are prepared to forgo the safety of this modern world to actually fight real demons who would torture,rape and murder others with whom they do not share a world view.
People who would travel thousands of miles to provide shelter for others whose homes are destroyed by war or nature.
Heroes indeed, and far form what I have witnessed within the world of Occultism.Within that I all see laziness, sloth, ego and very little of what I might consider virtue, thoughtless actions to benefit thoughtless people, have or want attitudes, nothing to benefit humanity, them and us, it is a farce and I laugh in all your faces for you cannot see the truth, you don't even want to.

So rise up and unite in this merry month of may, prove your humanity or be damned to your castles built of sand, and if there you remain then I do honestly hope to see you washed out to sea for this tide is upon the turn.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.
Tony.

Winter sun caught within the mist.

 

The Bright February sun burns away the hanging mists that touch upon the body of our land, when the cold wind abates there is warmth to be found within its embrace.

The Candlemass fire burned bright and fierce, yet like the storm touched solar rays it held little heat, but then it rarely does.

It speaks only of promise and promises, the bright mirror and the dark one, the light of the way and the beacon that is the hearth of the clan. Shelter from the world and hidden aspects of the self it offers not.

This world is on fire and yet we patiently await the rising phoenix as she blows away the ashes to reveal that splendour, that renewal and makes good her promise.

Patience may be a virtue indeed but do not mistake it for the idleness of waiting for her gifts to come to you, reward is never without work, to know love and joy is to experience the frustrations of pain,hate and anger, if we stay atop the mountain we forget the life in those forgotten vales. To embrace all that she throws at us is the key to life and true enlightenment. To await it's arrival without toil, thought and care is a sin that should have been consumed by he who would devour it.

There are still far to many prophets who sit within their halls of dust, upon thrones built of lies and deceit, amongst vast libraries of over priced tomes, rarely to climb down and live among those whom they feel shall be eternally beneath them, that tradition of the over privileged occultist, fat and rich upon the money of their kin, idle in the true work of their cause, the blind that would lead the blind, lemmings to the sea indeed.

I say jump and be done, for you are of no use to this world, unless you live within it. Of what use are you to the homeless man frozen by the winter winds? or the elderly one that lies upon her floor unable to move behind the closed door of your street. How does your work or lack of help the man who will lose his head at the touch of an Arab's sword or the woman who is brutalised for her God differs from your own?

Become human. Pay attention and walk in the world. Listen to the wind but do not shut out the voices of mankind. All work is prayer and therefore sacred, it is an evil man who does nothing to change the fate of the oppressed if it is within his grasp to do so, humanitarianism, environmentalism, the true vocations that will elevate the soul, ignorance only serves to lengthen your time in hell.

There is no medal of honour to be won here, none will gift you with rewards and riches, it is beyond where the gifts manifest, gifts of reciprocation that cannot be bought, sold or traded, for once given they are your own, your keys.

Every tradition within the craft started with a voice upon the wind, listen to the voice that speaks to you, it serves nothing to listen to translations of another's whispers, belong to yourself and you will find kin upon this path, make contact for there are others who would listen to you.

The Clan of Tubal Cain may be a closed order but we all wish to hear the stories of another's journey, to find and recognise our kin within the craft. We all belong to the stream, if we cut away the petty trappings and the badge wearing mentality of our occult past we may yet become a true community, but until that time we remain fractured.

Live life as a servant to it, to do anything else is to make a mockery of existence. Look to the old ones and their ways, for Odin's own sacrifice would be for nowt if you don't.

Speak upon the wind and someone will listen.

Flags, Flax and Fodder

Tony Macleod. (Man in black to the Clan of Tubal Cain.)

thecunningman@gmail.com

A Dog's Tale.

A Dog's Tale.

Born of the sun beyond the veil of mist,
disinherited bastard child of the earth,
beloved of the world.
Water, thick with dark peat hurls toward the deep,
silver ingot that leaps to prove his glory,
fulfilling his doom.
A shadow upon the rising sun,
one tortured soul, clings to the tree,
cruel carrion tear at his flesh,
returns him to whence he came.
Laughter and children's games,
bring tears amongst blood an splintered bone,
joy and woe,
it is I who stand triumphant upon this scarlet field.
Within the dark of night I met that hound,
I did take it's soul for my own,
I bore it's teeth to serve lesser men than I,
loyal to the last.
I became fear,
I became Death.
Born again on the field of wood and bronze,
twisting and changing,
fury hot and fierce courses though my veins,
I take it all,
this dog he feasts upon the slain.
A slave to none yet master not,
to the mist I must return,
a leap of faith as the salmon does,
to prove mine own glory, written in stone.
A beauty, copper scaled and fearless host,
the arts of war , the Arte of love I did learn.
The bringer and the thief, the lover and the beloved,
servant and traitor am I.
And yet with wisdom's gift did I goad my horses.
Toward mine own doom in the haze of glory.
A sacrifice, myself to myself,
Headlong towards this fools wyrd.
I hear the rush of the falls,
I feel my blood as it weeps for the loss.
Somewhere the master of the water makes his leap,
bright colour reflecting from a radiant sun upon the scaled armour.
A sigh upon the wind as he claims his glory, as carrion he lies by the waters edge.
An I.
Strapped to a rotting tree upon this heath,
this setting sun, as I knew it would be.
The raven, she tears at my flesh,
eats well of this bastard son who leaped as the salmon leaps.
I who have known glory, I who have known love, I who have known death.
It is I, that she takes home.

Unknown artist.


Flags Flax and Fodder. Tony.

For my youngest Daughter

It was in the Summer of 1998 that you came into our lives.

Foxglove high upon the hedges of the purple moor, full of promise, bright and beautiful, not unlike yourself.

As far north as we have ever lived, the silent whispers of midsummer holding our radiant Sun within the heavens through out both Day and Night.

A Child of light,of land ,sea and sky you came into our world with all the passion of those hot summer storms.

Thunder within your heart finds it's balance in love and harmony, then like the storm fades to brighten the world once more.

Our dearest Jen.

Like the flowers that were the heralds of your birth, be beautiful.

Like the wild storms of summer, embrace your passion.

Like the bright sun of midsummer ,be radiant.

Like the Ocean,shape the world and rise to all challenges.

Carry all this in your heart,.

for together with our most dearest love you will shine.

The brightest star in the night sky.

A light it has been our privilege to love and to hold.

We have had fortune indeed to know you my sweet girl.

Follow your heart yet always know that it will have a home with us .

XXX.

A fool's errand

A Fool’s errand.

It is a fool who would think, that to know the many names of god would grant him dominion over the crowd, the high seat at the table and an honour among men.

For the divine she is known by so many names it would choke the mind to know them all, cloud the water and blind the eyes to the vision said fool might seek, a thousand epithets and yet none would truly suffice, for in truth she has no name and yet is all names.

The Sword she cuts both ways, a severed cord as we draw our first breath into the world yet, poised above us she waits in judgement of our being, our conduct through the Wyrd, Death stalks us at every moment, from the first light of dawn upon those innocent eyes until tired and weary of life we are weighed and measured.

We live our lives upon the point of that blessed steel, pursuit of the hare leaves us not as hunter but the hunted, chasing our tails in an ever circular motion until we melt into the Lethe and forget who we are, why we are here and how we are to break this cycle.

These names we seek, are but breadcrumbs in the forest, easily forgotten when the servants of wind find sustenance in the bounty, the paths are still there amongst the arboreal home, it is distraction that renders the traveller lost, laden with so many words, burdened with so much weight it becomes a chore to move, she would bid the wanderer to remove this cloth and feel his way through the trees, feel the wind upon his face and move without the hindrance of useless knowledge that will afford him nothing in the final swing of that weapon. It is mastery of the self and not over others that will make the case for the defence within the bounds of that final Thing.

It must be said, that to fully understand the destiny of one’s life, the journeyman must know what it is like to be lost, to realise the delusions and to find that thread that his own kin have layed within the labyrinth to enable the return. For to be amongst one own, is to have a shield, not to protect from the piercing blade, but to better understand that tripartite edge, to perhaps wield it’s hilt and serve its master. It is only ever a poor man who could ever really appreciate what it is to have wealth and only when he comes to recognise his own poverty, for there are many who would count their riches yet few who would take that coin.

Truly blessed are those, who behold that light of day, those who can spot the thread of gossamer that has been placed before them upon the morning dew, glinting bright web of silver spun from the blood of the ancestors. To then gather it in, wind it upon one’s own wyrd and take that leap into the unknown that is known. Delicate at first, the more that is taken in the thicker it becomes, dense hemp rope that would tether a great ship becomes as wolf’s folly, Fenris bane, unbreakable. Thus the fish becomes the fisherman, the hunted becomes the hunter, the thread becoming a tapestry of much Wyrd woven together, the Rainbow bridge itself that will carry us to our ancestral home, to the very halls of the gods themselves.

We are born to this blade, we live by its law and we will be slain by its edge.

A grim tale it might well seem, yet one shared and rejoiced, to know ones end is to embrace all of ones gifts, that is our blessing and also our curse. Yes, to ride upon the shoulders of Giants is an honour indeed but slaves to their need we are, willingly by our own free will do we make that promise, sworn oaths at the point of the law bring both tears and laughter. Ignorance and deception, the lies and arrogance of the “would be” usurpers, become as grist to this mill, tighter those bonds become and far stronger for it becomes our merry band.

This Ship she sails with a chieftain, the embodiment of the law and all that it carries with her, that steady beat of wood upon skin that drives us through the rising oceans of the year, the sunstone of the ancestors will bring us home, a thousand bright jewels perfectly stitched into the dark blanket of night which call gently to our inner being, whispers in the abyss that remind us of where we are and where we need to be.

All this I see twixt the horns of our Stang, this is our holy child of arte. The family gathers, fire meets ice above the sacred Rose as brother and sister become as flames to the heat of gnosis, a favourable breeze that carries us to our destination, out of space and out of time.

Through life, love, severity and mercy we must all die, as certain as the tax collectors demand, yet within the weave we choose how we are to embrace this gift. That is who we are, that is what we do. Dispense with the many names of god, for there is only one word, it lives within the beat of the heart, the rising of the chest, the foot as it treads along the paths of this world. It is seen within the night sky, the rising tide and the flames of our holy fire. Born upon the wind to those who will listen, whispers that flow into the soul, I choose to listen, I choose to do so in the company of my brethren.

Perhaps one day we shall be carrying others upon our own shoulders.

Fags,Flax and Fodder.

 Tony.

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.