Saturni corvus

Dawn breaks and I hear her call.

Black ragged wings upon a cobalt sky she soars,

far above this waking world that lies bathed in dew,

shades of green and long faded shadow.

My heart awakens to this call,

Thought and memory stir to the resonance of that sound,

purpose and destiny entwined within that weave of dark cloth,

a tapestry filled with yet unseen imagery.

All eyes fall upon her form.

The panicked flutter of the vulnerable as they flee,

the fear, the terror as those who would attempt to avoid their fate,

to hide from morning's shadow, all calling.

"She is here, she is among us, hide from her gaze."

Those steel eyes were forged in fires long departed from this world,

belonging to another time they see all,

There is no malice, no bitter vengeance,

all is well, high within the rising warmth of mornings steady rise.

There are those who would berate her for this magisty.

The vengeful, the bitter and the curious.

Toward that which stirs the unknown within they soar, then away,

as if that word was enough, a sated curiosity returns all to the business of the day.

Then she is gone, disappeared from view.

To where I cannot see, yet my heart still hears her voice,

it still echo's it vibrant tone through my spirit.

Wise mistress, mentor to the lost and gatherer of souls.

It is to you I look.

Glorious Black Star, Radiant in the light of day.

Sister, mother, resurrector of the fallen.

Beneath your wings I am.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

When fire in no longer given freely it must be taken.

To what do we aspire?
How do we keep our heads within the insanity of the hell that surrounds us all.
It is a dangerous man that finds himself with nothing left to lose,
Trapped, the rat who wades through the detritus of modern civilisation.
With our backs to the wall we have limited choices,
to leap, to confront our jailors, to crouch further within our prison,
or to ascend to places where we are no longer subject to such hideous torment,
Holding back that black tide of reaction.

Our beloved children,
have come to view this world through the eyes of diseased vermin.
Raised to a life and trapped in a sewer, given little and have little to lose.
Taught to circumvent the virtues of love and life, even themselves.
Waves of faithless automatons would seek to destroy in them that which they themselves have lost,
forgoing that privalage of nurture, removing self worth, that which makes us strong,
blinded of the vision which would allow plain sailing over seas of derision.
A million seeds, allowed to rot in the storehouse of ignorance,
 as faith soon departs from the blind.

Ice requires fire to thaw that potential.
When fire in no longer given freely it must be taken.
Undirected and undisciplined it burns far beyond control.
Prometheus weeps,  when this divine gift is fanned by the flames of destruction,
that was never its purpose.

Be patient with the young and give good council.
What will be will be but we still shape our own fate.
To give all of our selves.
To hold dear all we are given.
We keep our heads above the water, and enjoy this sacred life,
for this gift is not ours alone,
we hold it in trust for our kin,
we must pass it on to them for it is theirs afterall.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

To those who would sit among the gods

Brave is the Warrior who would embrace the truth borne upon dark winds.
Patient in the face of the adversary.
Blessed is the child who can rest assured, nursed within those arms of fate.
That holy fool that takes it's first steps toward the light.
No one ever said that this journey would be easy but which path ever is.
A dark and crooked road it is not, yet pitfalls lie in wait for the unwary pilgrim.
Within those corridors of truth brightness often conceals the cracks at our feet.
It is the eyes that deceive, the heart knows the danger,the soul still clutches to the mother,
wyrd itself becomes both destiny and guide.
Far from land, to a place less travelled our journey ends, a reckoning, a beginning,
Who knows?
Only those who chose to know.
Only those who have gone before.
Only those who would sit among the gods.
Within those walls of stone, beneath the cradle of the heavens.

Brave are the chosen.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony

The Steel grey skies herald the season of change

 Steel grey Skies herald the new beginnings within this season of change.

The laughter of the old king still ringing in my ears.

The embrace of family dear, still warmth to my heart.

A seed of potential, an essence,

 if not appearance as the wheat stands tall beneath the echo of the blue moon.

An emerald land lies in pestilent hunger for a drying sun

 as the fields whisper words of poison ergot to the winds of becoming.

The shifting sands of time are upon us still as we stand at this worlds end,

 the bite of winter within those dark and remote places,

to look.

to prepare for the thread to which we grasp.

 Jack, master of frost does stretch forth his icy grasp, a touch,

a bite for the unaware,

a promise,

of that which is yet to come.

Still there is She.

She who is with me always .

She who gives sight to this blind fool.

 She who makes my blood pulse at her promise.

She who makes my heart race with her love.

Today and all days to come.

beyond the perceptions of man.

far beyond the lives of our kind.

The Steel grey skies herald the season of change.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.

The Quiet Warrior at the feast of John

I was taught as a young man that "Unless I had something positive to say I would be well advised to keep my mouth shut ", the truth of the matter is -that of late this has been sage advice, of course this is not the only reasoning for this prolonged silence, the answer there lies within the realms of personal thought and the nature of oaths taken, there has been much learnt and great gains within the often turbulent life of The Cunning man, a good deal of which serves no purpose in display here or anywhere else, family business is for family only and our concerns are not and should not be the concerns of others outside of such.

Silence during and after the storm will often furnish rich dividends, it allows the mind to reorder the troubles and distractions of modern living, it enables less reaction to the stresses and strains often placed upon us by others, when acknowledged the flood subsides and we are once more left to wander the fertile lands of our being, stronger for the temper having been held and forced to strengthen the soul, action engenders reaction and so forth, for a situation to be allowed to dissipate we must cease to continue to give it energy. This is not easy at all times  but the reward is vast and resolve becomes as a Shield.

Yet opinions and views cast upon myself and upon my own kin and the nature of action/inaction still force me to examine why it is we act the way we do, perhaps to enlighten those who would criticise our perceived inaction.

A study of the art of war is as good as any place to start, one of the great manuscripts on warfare and studied still within the military colleges the world over despite its considerable age, this is not some how separate to spirituality but another oft overlooked facet of it, in order to protect the faith we become warriors of the faith,an army itself is made up of many people all with different skills that becomes a force far stronger through unification, but must we always run to war.

 Our warrior nature allows for us to let our foes do the work, for them to send arrows badly aimed in our direction with intent yet with no power behind then, the wise man will wait until those same missiles are depleted from the stores of our enemies and the field is safe, then we have a deterrent and our own stores are plentiful, the attacker has become sterile no longer a threat to our peace. Let the angry warrior jump and swing, thrust and cut without thought or care as we step aside the badly placed blows, yet he becomes tired as we remain fresh and once more the field becomes quiet. Perhaps a time to strike will come around and when it does it shall be well aimed and truly find its mark, it will not be an action born of vengeance or anger but one child born of thought and justice. A silent assassin may complete the work efficiently where a thousand men can fail!

It would seem that in the eyes of others, that the quiet warrior is nothing more than a coward of inaction, unbloodied and impotent, when one truly studies the martial ways it may become apparent that the focused mind is the warriors most potent weapon, the unfocused mind or the enraged ego can be seen to be of benefit of the enemy and no one else.
So there in part explains my recent absence, thought and meditation, to be seen by some as unthinking inaction. Yet in all honesty there have been times of late where I have been physically restrained from action and now with hind sight I am glad for that council, for the moment at least I have gained more this way than I could have the other, and now the storm has passed I count my blessings as many and the curses as arrows that lie upon the field of battle, unbloodied and impotent alike to the perceptions of the ignorant.

Unfortunately within this time of electronic communication there are those who fail to adhere to the above metaphor, the computer keyboard has replaced the bow, sword and spear, it still seems to retain some similar properties of the shield however. Internet conflict is the modern form of warfare where the warriors of cyberspace duel with each other without fear of being hurt(physically), the dramas that seem to play out within the lives of teenagers are theirs alone no longer. I have been witness to all manner of threats and bullying, not as one would think coming from the adolescents within our community, but fully fledged adults, occult forums where grandmother stories proliferate at every level become the village gossip centres upon the book of faces, here it has become where talk is more about what so and so is doing and healthy debate seems to have taken a back seat. believe if you will but I have witnessed grown men challenge each other to Wizard's duels in the Harry Potter style fantasy, adults who cannot seem to grasp any kind of reality yet often have claims of power and heritage, the occult world is in danger of becoming a laughing stock in the eyes of "Muggles"(had to put that in, sorry), because those of us who refuse to react are laughing, although it is with pity and not mirth. As for the duellists,well, my own stang is quite heavy, it does not shoot out malefic flame but if I were to hit some one with it, my it would hurt.
Sadly of course, those lost individuals who might have a interest in the many faced jewel of occultism may feel today that is is not for them, up and coming talent is suppressed by the carrying on of those who in truth know nothing, the quiet ones are the ones to find, within the noise they become far harder to seek out with all the distractions and shouting everywhere, look for the one who watches, the one who thinks without the need to reply and listen to the heart.

 My own climb upon the ladder continues as ever, I am within the arms of Fate and she continues to astound me. Midsummer is nearly upon us and family gathers for the feast of John, it truly seems like another life when I stood alone in the wilds of my home and wished for company below the stars.
To those who would seek companions of the Arte I would say, trust in yourself and only when you are content in who you are and what you do will something happen, the craft requires people that are whole or on the way to becoming so, you may well be capable of becoming so by yourself. Do not wait until the opportunity arises, do your thing, explore the worlds and find some of the keys, when you need to be among family  she will provide, if it is through desire you will be a long time solitary.
You will only ever get out the equivalent of what you put in, she will aid and assist but if you treat her as a servant you will go hungry, devotion takes on many forms and she sees them all, displays of devotion are often just that when conducted with an empty heart, a true craftsman know this and I would say it is the one thing every "Witch" should know. So watch with care and take note.

Before I depart I will add one more message to those who have bought storms to my door- I am the quiet Warrior, I consider my actions carefully, do not think me impotent for if you do it will be your own down fall, I am not weak, I have a strength that you do not yet understand(I am not sure I do myself as yet) I shall not make threats or curse your pitiful souls, but sleep well tonight for one day I shall come, or perhaps I shall serve the lady Salome gladly and the choice of dish shall be up to you, perhaps within the dark of night or upon the field of war but your times will come, I promise you that.

Flags,Flax and Fodder.. Tony.

An unpredictable spring, Truth and lies.

It has been a strange time of late, seeds planted at the warm turn of spring timidly peek from the dark soil to find bitter frost and chill wind awaits, unpredictable British weather at its best and as such brings no surprise.
The land is still radiant down here in the wilds of Cornwall, Mr Frost has had cause to nip at the greening flora but here at least to little effect, astounding when we consider how the equinox moon had bought with it such warmth and joy, relevant and welcome yet veiled behind lie the teeth of winter still.
The changing temperatures bring changing fortunes as the blessings and curses of life form those who would be within the arms of fate, stress and misfortune comes and fades from which we take what lessons are offered and continue to grow with hope and the love of all who surround us, blessings that come are to be treasured indeed as the year has yet to be shaped.
As a time of great change is descending upon us we journey forth, blind into the mist, not volcanic eruptions and tsunami floods but an end of a different kind, the values and dreams of the west are crumbling as I speak, propped up with false hope and paper gold, delusion and false prophets are the true kings of this "civilised" age, man has failed to see the divine so therefor it cannot be seen.
So it would seem that what we consider to be the advanced culture of western civilisation shall be the first to crumble, all beneath the light of secularism and greed, where evolution is measured in terms of technology, when in fact the very opposite is occurring, a race of beings who when faced with adversity would be unable to perform the simple tasks of feeding themselves or to create fire for warmth, a roof over the head and be capable of judgement, moral or otherwise, an idiocracy where no one is ever asked to think for themselves, nanny states and religion that is bought and sold, the second fall of mankind as it descends further away from the source.

I guess that in the light of this truth it might be pertinent to speak of the secret world of the craft, one might even ask why such secrets should be kept from the bulk of mankind upon the eve of its fall.
The truth is that there are no secrets, a wise man once said that" all knowledge is there upon the wind for one who would listen".
There are in this land secret societies and groups of occultists who would keep secrets for secrets sake and little else, to many it seems that is the case of most who practice genuine traditional craft, although it is not.
That which one would have to search for is part of an individuals argosy, to be told what the journeyman will encounter does not serve the journeyman, quite the reverse as it creates delusion, clouds judgement and becomes part of the lie. To tell someone what they will encounter within the void is to deceive, all that is gained is an insight into what the mentor has seen and if he or she is from a longer line of mentors the lie itself is spread and shaped far beyond any hope of truth. Sadly there is so much of this deception prevalent within the occult world "you shall journey to a dark cave where upon the horned one shall greet you and......." sigils and visions that might belong to the writer or even his teacher are of little use to the seeker of truth.
The hidden truth is thereby a blessing in itself, it protects the seeker from the lie and allows the seeker to glimpse something that is a reality and not a falsehood, this will later be concurred by others who have walked the path and will have experienced this divine essence in whatever shape it took, yet after the effect and not before, it is by this essence that we shall no one another and all shall be revealed in time.

And so to reveal a secret of the crooked path to all my fellow voyagers.
The crooked path is no such thing, when the foot falls with truth and devotion all can see that it is in fact the straightest path possible, the way is clear and the view is splendid, illumination and not darkness are the true ways of Fate, deception is that which lurks in the shadows among those unscrupulous individuals who would sell you your fortune, the only crooked thing about the crooked path is those rotten souls to be found along it and who actually have nothing to sell in any case, in fact it can often be said they have nothing of value at all.
The moment that we begin to think that the truth can be bought and sold as a commodity we fall further from that which we seek, beware false prophets and occult salesman as though they were thieves within the shadows of a dark alley, be patient and all will be revealed in time.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony..

The Teeth of Winter, the Love of Family and the Hunters Tale.

Candlemass brings upon its winds the teeth of winter, Jack does stalk the land in shades of white and muted green, his bite drawing that core warmth from within our bodies and moving our souls far closer to the other realms as we shiver at his touch.
Not so white yet hard ground crunches underfoot down here on this far southwestern peninsula, the threat of snow upon the air but it is as rain that falls upon the frozen soil today.

A far cry from the bright sun and still air that did mark yesterday's passing, as this hunter took to the woodland and fields of his home in search of sustenance for the tribe, by need and never desire to stalk the wild within the footsteps of winter ever hopeful to place beast upon the hearth and food within the bellies of his dearest kin.
Silently across the field, the ground as fragile glass beneath his feet he moves, delicate, deliberate steps toward the standing wood of alder and willow, the favoured food of his prey at this time of year, the trees are stripped of the mosses, lichens and barks and some will fall within the passing of thirteen moons, with far too few predators the forest would be gone, would that it be if not for those children that find the spirit of Herne himself within their souls abide.
The grey brown towers of the woodland obscure the view, it is not with eyes alone that this hunter finds his way, the cloven hoof leaves its mark twixt the fallen twigs as does the bare strips left where once the armour of trees was wrapped. He moves between the frozen stalks and lying branches which would alert his quarry to his presence should careless haste take hold, aware that he is not alone here yet it is the eye that sees the eye that will give him away, all senses finely tuned, the sounds of the startled bird, the feather that falls from overhead to land softly upon the loam, the taste of the trees and the air that gives up its secrets as it passes though the mouth and into the lungs, yet there is more, the connection between hunter and hunted grows, it is felt, sensed, almost beyond description, it is a knowing, a certainty that the years of walking this path has taught him. All that we might strive for in our esoteric world is here, in this moment, you are closer to the source than possibly at any other time, within the trees one is almost blind so it comes to pass that eyes cannot deceive the mind, relying of that which would lie dormant within this modern world.
There is no time here, the clock may still turn but the turning is not felt or heard, you become -out of time, the bridge between the worlds, the walker in the void.
Under and over the fallen wood he moves, as silent as is humanly possible he dances through the trees, tuned to the world around him until, it is there, the beat of another's heart, again felt and not heard, the life of his quarry sensed somewhere ahead, something that is not of the flora yet the fauna, through the forest he gazes, looking for that sign of something that alike to his own kind does not quite fit within the surroundings, animal and plant have very different spirit and it is this that gives the position of the deer away.
In the distance there is a movement as she weaves quietly through the wood, head down to fill the belly with moss then up to nibble at the much beloved bark, it is a waiting game, the opportunities are rare to gather the harvest and to take a clear shot through the trees, closer he moves until with those same senses she catches his own spirit, he averts his eyes from her gaze, to connect on that level would give the chase away, this act alone gives her the strength and somewhat misplaced confidence to continue in her own hunt for nutrition and brings her calmly within the hunters sight.
It is here the game ends, the battle for survival is over, for one of the participants anyway, cradled within the hunters arms she is given food for her journey and the words of lament are spoken to her in her last breath, "I am sorry to take your life, my sister, you bring much to my family and you are greatly valued", there is no celebration, no trophy for the great hall, only sadness and relief, as her spirit soars toward the source she will be remembered by all that partake of her bounty, we are Herne's children after all.

And there ends this hunters tale, it is not desire that should steady the aim, it is as I said- need, the times are lean at the moment so the Cunning man has to use his cunning Arte, whether that be fair of foul, in this world or the others, it becomes necessary. The rites of the hunter are fairer than many would imagine, those who would rather stalk the chiller cabinets in the local supermarket are far less responsible and show far less respect to the flesh they consume, than those who walk with mud, blood and bone, the hunter and the vegan are two sides of the same coin and have far less splinters in the arse than those who would sit atop the fence and those who would allow others to hold the burden, to take responsibility for what we do is a means to send hypocrisy packing, I eat the flesh of animals and I try to be responsible when doing so, if any would like to question my ethic then please look upon your selves before doing so, then and only then I will embrace your opinion through and from the point of truth.

Spring I feel will be hot upon the heels of Mr Frost, the serpent has shaken his coils and awaits his journey, my own journey continues to take me far from the Cornish moors, moments shared between brothers and sisters of Arte serve to strengthen the bonds, although time and distance on the surface seem far, it will always feel that it was only yesterday that we were gathered as one. When leaving upon the blessings of Imbolg, we received an unseasonal gift from the divine, as on that day the sun brought news of the coming Spring tide, melting snow upon my coat and the shadow of Angels within the compass leave fond impressions within the heart and soul.
For now I return to the "real" world, always with one foot within the others as there is no separation after all, the many make up the whole and we are a part of all.

May the spirit of candlemass wash away that which is unnecessary and may you face the world anew.

Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.