Harvesting changes

harvest being 2014 027Saturday morning we were up on the moor to greet the dawn. It was apparent that we were going to be doing so symbolically this time. There would be no golden orb rising in the east that we could see through the heavy cloud that enveloped the hilltops. Nonetheless, the moors take on a timeless mystery in such weather that only enhances the beauty of their spirit, even though the visual glory is veiled.

harvest being 2014 054We are given the weather we need; this weekend, after all, was all about the parallels we can draw from the world around us and the enshrouding mist is a rich source of such understanding. How often are the true gifts of life hidden within seemingly unpleasant situations? How often is beauty clouded by a lack of perception? We could have simply decided not to climb the sodden, chilly hillside before breakfast and remained instead in our nice, cosy hotel, knowing there would be no visible dawn, yet had we done so we would have lost the opportunity of knowing an unusual, ethereal beauty, not seen the shifting shapes of rock and tree, nor the heightened colour of autumnal foliage varnished with dew.

harvest being 2014 016We could not have felt the silent morning unfold, or seen the barely perceptible shift as the hidden sun rose above the fog, turning the world opalescent, luminous and ageless. The surface world was a place, it seemed, from which to retreat under the covers, snuggled in the familiar warmth of a bed or watched through the protective panes of a window. The drenching mist was not inviting, held few enticements… and yet, the reward for stepping into the unknown of the shrouded moor was beauty.

harvest being 2014 044Dew-heavy spiderwebs stretch out across the heather like the tents of a fairy encampment or sheets hung out to dry, sparking imagination and whimsy as we pass. The heather itself seems a microcosmic forest with its woody stems and flower heavy canopies. The rocks deepen from a uniform grey to blues and reds, the minerals highlighted by the moisture. Shapes are revealed that you would miss at any other time as the familiar becomes unfamiliar and you see it in a new light, silhouetted against a new, stark background.

harvest being 2014 051The last time my companion and I had spent time on the moors we had been drawn to a cluster of apparently random rocks, ‘erratics’, we assumed, left there by the shifting glaciers of the Ice Age. There was undoubtedly something special about the place and a little bird told us so, flying up and down for our delight before coming to rest mere feet away and watching us as we sat amongst the stones. We had revisited the spot before the arrival of our companions the previous day, speculating on their use and nature, whether the great stones had been deliberately placed or simply used and we had seen in the ashes of loss that these same rocks spoke also to others in a similar voice.

harvest being 2014 009You just never know what lies hidden beyond the edge of sight. Nor can we always see how we blind ourselves to the obvious by the focal length of our perception or the background against which we choose to see our world. Certainly on Saturday we would have chosen clear skies, light and colour over the all-pervading grey. Yet, as we returned to the hotel for breakfast my friend pointed out the rocks and shared our ideas with our companions. I turned and looking back, finally saw what it was that drew us. I did not have to explain… the startled expletive as I raised the camera was all that was needed for him to see in the mist what we had missed in the sunlight. Changing the familiar perspective had shown us greater clarity in the ghostly monochrome than any golden morning could have offered and out perception of that corner of the moors now lives in a different way. The ‘misty, moisty morning’ had revealed what the clear light of day had hidden, and the guardian, a silent sleeper, once seen now stands out among the rocks for us in a way we will not forget.

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Posted in Landscape, Photography, Spirituality, The Silent Eye | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

“Work Space Blog Hop”

Pamela nominated me to take part in the Workspace Blog Hop, sharing where we each work and write. For me there is no spectacular space, just the small corner of the living room that has become my focus. The desk and sideboard, once upon a time, were a modern ‘Welsh dresser’ that was converted to fit in the corner as an occasional space to work. At that point in time it mattered more that the place looked tidy. Comfort took second place; I didn’t spend that much time at the keyboard after all. It was only temporary.

Several years on, that temporary measure is possibly the most uncomfortable desk in the world. My kneecaps sit nicely on the shelf in the centre but as my feet don’t quite touch the floor, the lower shelf does, at least, give me a convenient toehold. I dream of spacious desks and big, padded, leather chairs… footrests and space…

desk 006
That centre shelf, by the way, doubles as the gym. It generally holds an assortment of Ani’s toys, stuffed under there periodically throughout the day by a hopeful small dog who has worked out that even when I am typing away I may be induced to throw a ball or squeak a stuffed toy if they are placed within reach.

On the desk itself there are, even given the restricted space, a variety of crystals I have been gifted, a photo or two that make me smile, reference and notebooks, and a small door through which I can escape. There are also candles. I like to write by candlelight rather than putting the lights on in the evening, and the phone is always handy.

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Also within reach is a window onto the garden for procrastinating inspiration, the odd book or two and the kettle for the necessary coffee. And usually a small dog for company, comfort, exercise and dietary assistance (she eats everything). She also doubles as a footrest.

The back door stands almost permanently open, day and night, just behind me. I can hear the birds sing and the flutter of their wings as Ani chases them out of her garden.

caOn the other hand, I have bits of paper, notebooks and pens in every conceivable nook and cranny these days from handbag to bathroom. You never know when you might come up with something after all and need to write it down before it vanishes!

In turn I will pass this along to Alienora Taylor and Gary Vasey, should they choose and have time to join the blog hop.

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The first lesson…

harvest being 2014 009In the few weeks since I had last driven north the countryside has changed. The harvest is in, fields are scattered with bales of hay and the leaves are beginning to turn quite visibly now. Splashes of scarlet and yellow, the first small drifts of fallen leaves and boughs heavy with berries and fruit signal the change in the year far better than any calendar. The sun, however, is shining and the sky a clear blue I hope bodes well for the weekend’s weather.

harvest being 2014 047I had driven up on Thursday to collect my companion for the School’s weekend in Ilkley. Of course, it is a long drive from here to where he lives and you need to stretch your legs…especially if they are as short as mine. So I pulled into the lane that leads to the church in the village of Kings Bromley. There is an ancient look to the stone of the central part of the building there and I had been meaning to stop for a while and visit the place.

harvest being 2014 033From the outside it looks rather grand for a village church but the village has a long and illustrious history with associations with many notable people from our past. It is said that Leofric, Lady Godiva’s husband died here in 1057AD. The tall cross in churchyard has been beautifully restored, the stonework of the church walls is Norman at the centre but with heavy additions and the whole place looks well kept, with that rather well-bred air that usually signals a richly decorated, elaborate interior.

harvest being 2014 016What a surprise then to enter into the quiet simplicity of the building. It has little to show in terms of monuments, gilding or carving. A simple rood screen divides nave from choir and although there are the traces of possible past glories, all that remains of what may have been are faint memories in stone. The stained glass, however, is beautiful and has some unusual subjects. The church is well worth the visit for the windows alone, especially the fragments of  early glass, but beyond the visible it has a quiet air of peace.

harvest being 2014 021Some twenty five miles further down the road is another church I have been trying to see. From the outside this small, simple building looks like the kind of gentle village church that I prefer. Here in this very tiny village I expect only simplicity, but hope to find more visible traces of the past as this place too dates back to Norman times.

harvest being 2014 128Taking a shot of the spire a crow flies in and movement higher in the sky catches my attention. A pair of raptors…buzzards probably… are wheeling above the church. This, of course, is always a good sign; I now have no idea what to expect as I pass the three Celtic crosses in the churchyard that, while modern, tie in so well with some of the things we have been working on.

harvest being 2014 0641The first thing to greet me was the ceiling… dark beamed with carved angels, each one different, running the length of the church. Fenny Bentley was going to have some surprises, that much was evident. Especially with the polite notice in the aisle that asks visitors not to step in the bat droppings…

harvest being 2014 115It was, in fact, only because I was looking up that, in the gloom, I noticed the painted ceiling of the side chapel. Exploring further beyond the ornate rood screen I found the side chapel with the unusual 15th century shrouded figures carved in alabaster on the Beresford tomb. harvest being 2014 121

The painted panels and stained glass tucked away in the chapel are stunning and that was without venturing into the chancel, where another set of panels depict angels flanking the altar.harvest being 2014 096

It is another reminder that you should never judge a book by its cover, as the saying goes… or in this case a church by its exterior. In spite of ‘knowing better’ from previous experience, I had made assumptions which, in both cases, proved to be wrong. Beautifully so, in this instance, but nevertheless; I had been wrong. The showy exterior had held less than I had expected, the simplicity of the tiny St Edmund’s had concealed a wealth of art, history and colour.

harvest being 2014 106I’m not alone in defying experience in terms of snap judgements, we all do it when we are not paying attention to ourselves and the lessons life has offered us, of course, but that doesn’t make it any better. We have a responsibility both to ourselves and to others not to make these judgements based on surfaces alone as well as a need to truly reap and realise the lessons we are taught by our own experience. This was the first of many lessons to be harvested this weekend and I was thoughtful as I headed back to the car and continued to wend my way through the lanes and hills of Derbyshire.

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Bringing in the harvest

harvest being 2014 071The heather still shows patches of purple although the massed luxuriance of colour has now faded; the bracken begins to turn to bronze and the autumn mists swirl in. Even so, beauty remains. This weekend saw a gathering of companions at a small hotel, high above the little Yorkshire town of Ilkley, for the first Harvest of Being weekend. It was to be a small gathering this year, as the idea had come late. Rather than simply leave it till next year we had chosen to go ahead and take the gift the idea had offered. We, as a School and as companions, have much to be thankful for at this harvest time.

harvest being 2014 020The weekend was intended to be relaxed; no formal teaching, just time to play, to explore both the ancient landscape of the moors and the inner landscape of being, seeing how the two are intricately woven, reflecting and informing each other. We were simply going to begin with ideas, accept the gifts of the moment and see where the days would lead us. Our annual April workshop in Derbyshire takes a more structured approach, seeding knowledge through a sacred drama that is played out as a story, engaging both intellect and emotions as the tale progresses. This harvest time was to take a more leisurely, reflective approach and give the opportunity to gather in what has grown from the knowledge of the mind to the understanding of the heart as our personal journeys move onwards.

harvest being 2014 031My travelling companion and I stopped for lunch at the little café below the rocks. It was as near to the moor as he intended to allow me to get before the weekend began. “I’ll never get you down otherwise…” Even so, a sandwich and a coffee later and we were both climbing up to the top of the famous Cow and Calf rocks once again where I could look out over Ilkley Moor… Rombald’s Moor… and drink in the sense of place that goes straight to my heart.

harvest being 2014 026We stood upon the wide surface of a rock carved in ages past by ancient hands, overlaid with more modern names that span the past few hundred years. Human names, human hands, human history… a presence and continuity that leaves its mark with timeless immediacy. Looking down I saw once again the profile of the falcon in the rocks… a random figure, a simulacrum that the eye builds from line and form or something shaped, encouraged into life by hands other than the artistry of wind and rain? Who knows. For us it is a special symbol and it seemed right to have seen it there first, so many years before the school was born and to now be poised upon the edge of a new chapter, just as we were perched upon that high eyrie, ready for the weekend to take flight.

harvest being 2014 042My room looked out over the Cow and Calf rocks, along Wharfedale towards the setting sun and although we were there with the School, there was no stopping the singing in my heart at this return ‘home’ to a place I have loved all my life. Sunday would also be my birthday and the anniversary of the publication of The Initiate, so to be on these moors with these companions was to be doubly… trebly… gifted. Blessed. We greeted the first of our companions to arrive and as the sky began to fade we walked back, up onto the moor, to the Hanging Stone, to where the carvings are truly ancient, to where, millennia apart, we stood in a sacred place with the shadows of our kin to watch the sun sink beyond the western horizon.

harvest being 2014 347

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Rombald’s moor – my moor

X ilkley weekend 030Tall the cliffs of stone
That mark the entry to my heart’s domain,
Wild and empty in its vastness
The solitude of living earth.
The wind lifts the heart
And bears it through the storm
To where the lichen crusted rocks
Cling to the clouds.
Part of my heart remains there
Scattered with the ashes of a lost love
Mingled with the joy and pain of memory,
Of childhood wonder and a lover’s kiss.
Deep the roots which bind me to that land,
Like the weathered pines that cling for life
To the purple hillside…
Genuflecting, but standing, still,
Naked in the mist.
Or the great stones,
Ice carved in aeons past
Into a landscape of dreams,
Marked by ancient hands
With figures of Light,
That I may stand beside them,
Millennia apart,
And recognise my kin.

Morning mists near Backstone CircleWe all have special places; places that sing to our hearts, hold memories, places we could call our heart’s home. This is mine.

No words of mine can capture what it means to me, no photograph show how the colours play in my heart. And this weekend I am here, doing the Work I love, in the landscape I love, with people  I love.

Today is a gift.

The dates of this Harvest of Being weekend were chosen in the hope it would allow a friend to join us and, though sadly she was unable to do so, there was a personal reason why the timing was perfect.

Today, of all days, there is nowhere else on this earth that I would rather be than exactly where I am. Nothing else I would rather be doing than the Work I am doing. And although there are others I could wish were also here with us, I could not wish for any dearer friends with whom to share the day.

Thank you.

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Final day – Sword of Destiny 0.99 for Kindle

While I wander the moors on which Sword of Destiny is set this weekend, the book celebrates its first year; a Kindle offer will be running for three days from 12th to 14th September. Sword of Destiny will be available for download for 0.99 during the whole of the promotion.

Available on Amazon UK and Amazon US

 

11 Rombalds moor (34)“…Will you forge the straight track for us, old friend?” Merlin asked the giant. Ogmios’ eyes gleamed in the starlight.

“Come, it is long since we walked such a path together. Stay close and have your children gather their courage.” The giant walked to the centre of the plateau, caressing the earth and chanting softly. Merlin gathered the Champions and himself took up the rear, rekindling the golden orb which danced above his head. Slowly the ground melted away beneath the giant’s hands, leaving a depression in the ground. Ogmios smiled at the company, and never breaking his chant, stepped into the hole, sinking into the rock as if it was quicksand.

“Follow the song, don’t be afraid to breathe. I am behind you and you are perfectly safe.” Hand in hand Alec and Rhea stepped into the ground. Reality had been redefined so often over the past few days that they did not question Merlin’s instructions. Jamie would have followed, but Anna hung back, horrified. The young man caught her hand and led her forward.

“Come on, I know this seems hard, but trust Merlin.” Anna closed her eyes and stepped into the hollow. She felt herself sinking, down and down into some amorphous substance that was not the earth she knew. Terror welled inside. There was no solidity beneath her feet, no air, nothing but the weight of earth closing above her and the pressure of Jamie’s hand. She dare not breathe. Seconds passed like hours as she fought back the screams. Her chest felt that it would explode. She had been buried alive.

“Breathe, Anna, you’ll be okay. I don’t know why or how, but it’s okay.” Jamie’s voice brought her back and she instinctively gulped in a lungful of sweet air. “Now, open your eyes and look. It’s amazing!”

Anna obeyed. The space through which they moved was filled with sparkling motes that danced to the giant’s song. The air tasted clean and fresh as a spring morning with a warm afterglow of autumn. Ahead, Alec and Rhea were shrouded in the dancing starlets of colour, behind Merlin’s witch light turned the air to gold.

Anna held out a hand, and tiny particles clustered around her fingers, clinging to invisible lines of force like iron filings round a magnet. Jamie, beside her, wore a nimbus of colour which pulsed and shimmered with every breath. Terror was forgotten as the company passed through the earth, following the song. Time had no meaning here, there was neither weight nor effort. Just a flowing. A strange, sleepy peace crept over them as they moved. They were aware that here was a life infinitely slower than their own but just as vital.

None could have said how long that journey lasted but eventually, the light changed, becoming harsh and cold and they felt the chill of stone beneath their feet. Merlin was bowing deeply before Ogmios in the moonlight.

“Thank you, old friend. I had almost forgotten that glory. It is good to be reminded.” Merlin turned to his companions. “Never forget that you have travelled through the veins of the Earth. You have been carried in Her stream of life and breathed Her very essence. I do not think any other mortals have been so blessed.”


Sword_of_Destiny_Cover_for_KindleSword of Destiny

Rhea Marchant heads north to the wild and beautiful landscapes of the Yorkshire Dales where she is plunged into an adventure that will span the worlds. The earth beneath her feet reveals its hidden life as she and her companions are guided by the ancient Keeper of Light in search of artefacts of arcane power. With the aid of the Old Ones and the merry immortal Heilyn, the company seek the elemental weapons that will help restore hope to an unbalanced world at the dawn of a new era.

Set in the ancient beauty of the Yorkshire Dales, Sword of Destiny weaves the tale of a small band of friends brought together as a new age of Man unfolds. Through their personal quests, through friendship, love and laughter, they learn to see the world with a clearer vision as they battle creatures of ancient myth and legend, under the aegis of the Keeper.

“a beautifully magical story”

“a beautiful and evocative tale”


You can download a free Kindle app for PC, Mac, android and other platforms that allows you to read the books available, even if you do not own a Kindle.. and there are thousands of books to choose from, including many classics, and hard-to-find volumes! With a huge catalogue of free, discounted and rare books to choose from it is a treasure trove for bookworms. You can download the free Kindle reading app for your device here in the UK, or here in the US.

The promotion runs from 12th to 14th September 2014 inclusive on Amazon UK and Amazon.com.

Also available in paperback.


Be kind to authors – make their day and leave a review.

Posted in Books | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

A Yorkshire poet

11 Rombalds moor (8)

On A Yorkshire Moor

Over a hill the west wind loves,
There lies a quiet glen,
Far away from the roaring world,
Far from the strife of men ;
Out to the south a lordly wall
Reared by no human hands,
A cloud-dark wall that overlooks
The windy heather lands.

Crags to the north like fortress bold,
A proud arrogant steep,
That shelters from the raiding storms
The winter-harassed sheep ;
Out to the east a rising fell,
Striped like a tiger’s skin,
With raking flank of yellow grass,
And ribs of darksome whin.

And one grey rock, like pagan god,
Solemn as death, and lone,
That oft, maybe, the hill tribes made
Their ancient worship stone ;
The strange wild people of the past
Have vanished race on race,
And we, like shadows on the grass,
Now pass before its face.

And one clear stream ordained to be
The singer of the heath,
A fairy rising with her songs
From mystic wells beneath ;
The silver mist on wet May moors,
The wild autumnal rain,
That gave their music to the hill,
The stream gives back again.

A singer, that from ancient days
Hath charmed this purple height,
Still singing through the bracken green,
A chorister in white ;
And I poor singer, doomed to seek
My songs with weary thought,
Can never like this streamlet feel
The songs that rise unsought.

O’er pebbles, laid like Eastern floor,
With tiles of every hue,
A jewelled houri flashing down
Long corridors of blue,
And roaming seaward takes the wave,
A gift from moorland wells,
North Sea hath its grandeur from
The rugged Yorkshire fells.

And here there comes on driving wings,
Red-singed by autumn fires,
The Moorcock, lordliest bird that loves
The lusty northern shires ;
And here a falcon strikes across
The lark-hushed spaces high,
A moment-poised, then comes to earth,
A dagger from the sky.

And where the wind-song shakes the grass,
And all the hollow fills,
I lie and hold communion with
The spirit of the hills ;
And nought of greed of petty strife,
Or human fret is here,
But one great feeling sways the heart, -
To worship and revere.

A temple built by nature’s hands,
With transept, nave and aisle,
And hallowed by the holiness
Of some cathedral pile ;
A minster where Eternal rites
And harmonies abound,
The sky above, the moor below,
And the great God around.

Ammon Wrigley (1861-1946) Songs of a Moorland Parish, 1912.

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(With thanks to Andy Hemingway, the only photographer I have seen who consistently captures the spirit of the northern moors, for making some of Wrigley’s work available online.)

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Anniversary offer- Sword of Destiny

While I wander the moors on which Sword of Destiny is set this weekend, the book celebrates its first year; a Kindle offer will be running for three days from 12th to 14th September. Sword of Destiny will be available for download for 0.99 during the whole of the promotion.

Available on Amazon UK and Amazon US

nick north days 039

“… It was like waking into a nightmare within a dream. I could feel sticky limbs attaching themselves to me all over, leeching the life from me. When I dared to open my eyes all I could see were these black things like huge worms writhing all around me. It was horrible.” As he spoke, fear and disgust were etched on his face. “I was afraid. I tried to tear them off me, kick them away, and the more I fought, the more I became entangled in them. I felt they would break me in pieces.

“I was about at the end of my strength. I don’t know how long I had been fighting. A lifetime, it felt. Then I saw a glint of silver. I reached out, trying to move towards it, I hoped it was the sword. I thought of the old story of the lady of the lake, and remembered Merlin and that made me smile inside. As soon as I smiled the tentacles seemed to flinch away. Then I heard a song. It was so beautiful that I was still and listened. I can’t tell you how it lifted my heart. I just gave in to it and the black things began to melt away. It seemed as if I could fight the darkness all I liked, but I could never win. Yet, by surrendering to beauty and joy the darkness could find no hold on me anymore.

“I closed my eyes and followed the song towards the sword. I could feel the music drawing me and the tentacles released me. I drifted for a long time in a darkness that was soft, not menacing, with the melody all around me. I don’t know how long. I suppose I must have been breathing, but it was no longer important. I just let the waters take me. After a while I could see light through my eyelids and I opened my eyes.

“I seemed to be drifting through a garden that swayed in the current. I followed a pathway of silver sand that led me over a hill. Beyond was a city of stark, white buildings. There was no-one there, so I followed the song. It led me down straight avenues bordered with flat roofed houses, I could see through the windows that the houses were ready for their occupants… tables were laid, toys were waiting for childish hands, tools lay awaiting their master, but there was no-one in sight.

“The paved roads ran straight towards the centre of the city. Beside the path were silent fountains and a stream that now lay empty. Every so often there was a crossroads, with a curving road either side. I felt the city was built in circles around a centre.

“After a while, I came to a great open space, paved and clean. It ran around the biggest building I had seen so far. Fish shoaled like flocks of birds above me. There were wide steps that led up to a columned façade, all made of some white stone with the sheen of polished marble. The roof gleamed a soft gold, casting rays of light into the darkness above.

“I climbed the steps and went inside. The hall was huge, echoing weirdly, almost like the sound in a swimming pool. There was a light, silver bright, shining against a dark doorway ahead of me. I seemed to be wading through water as I walked. I suppose I was, but it seemed the most natural element in the world.

“The room was lined with scrolls and books. All around the walls, millions of them it seemed. I got the impression that every human story was written and recorded here, every tear, every smile. The roof seemed to reach up beyond vision and the walls were not walls, but bookshelves, arranged in concentric circles around the brilliant glow in the centre.

“It took an age to get there. It felt as if I had been walking for years. Maybe I have. Time had a presence but no meaning. There was only now.

“She was there. The child, with her green-gold hair flowing out around her head as if caught in an unseen current. She was standing by a lectern in the centre of the space. The sword was in her hands and she smiled at me, holding out the blade.

Jamie glanced questioningly at Merlin. “She called me father and bade me take the blade. I asked her name and she shook her head, laughing. She told me she was born of water and Light and that her name was mine to give. She showed me a scroll on the lectern and gave me a pen made of a swan feather. Looking at her she radiated something so simple and beautiful, I could think of only one word. I name her Grá.” Merlin had tears in his eyes, but it was Anna who answered.

“Love. You named her Love.”

Extract from Sword of Destiny

nick north days 203


Sword_of_Destiny_Cover_for_KindleSword of Destiny

Rhea Marchant heads north to the wild and beautiful landscapes of the Yorkshire Dales where she is plunged into an adventure that will span the worlds. The earth beneath her feet reveals its hidden life as she and her companions are guided by the ancient Keeper of Light in search of artefacts of arcane power. With the aid of the Old Ones and the merry immortal Heilyn, the company seek the elemental weapons that will help restore hope to an unbalanced world at the dawn of a new era.

Set in the ancient beauty of the Yorkshire Dales, Sword of Destiny weaves the tale of a small band of friends brought together as a new age of Man unfolds. Through their personal quests, through friendship, love and laughter, they learn to see the world with a clearer vision as they battle creatures of ancient myth and legend, under the aegis of the Keeper.

“a beautifully magical story”

“a beautiful and evocative tale”


You can download a free Kindle app for PC, Mac, android and other platforms that allows you to read the books available, even if you do not own a Kindle.. and there are thousands of books to choose from, including many classics, and hard-to-find volumes! With a huge catalogue of free, discounted and rare books to choose from it is a treasure trove for bookworms. You can download the free Kindle reading app for your device here in the UK, or here in the US.

The promotion runs from 12th to 14th September 2014 inclusive on Amazon UK and Amazon.com.

Also available in paperback.


Be kind to authors – make their day and leave a review.

Posted in Books, Humour, Merlin, Mythology | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

From the archives…

Remember

Cold creeps in slowly,
Bones, chilled and brittle
Snap like twigs,
Fragile and friable.
Remembered warmth
Turns the mind to memory;
Sunlight and laughter
And your hand in mine
Murmuring dreams;
Walking our future
As our words entwine
And our hearts race
Seeing the far yesterday
In our tomorrow.
Climbing our mountains
With the innocence of children,
Finding our future
In each others eyes.

snow rose

Posted in Memory, Poetry | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Paper wings

fantasy_quill_by_kippcantdance-d48o7urIn sleepless silence
night mourns the dreaming
lost to a fallen star.
Shadows chase the ghosts of morning,
ever seeking to consume them,
jealous of their light.
Paper wings flutter
unheeded to the floor
in flightless death.
The wakeful poet dips his pen
in cold coffee
beside the empty bed
and yearns for dawn.

Posted in Poetry, writing | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments