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…But she knew.
She had seen it when the vision took her there…
Following the spirit path on the hawk’s wings…
They marked her when they had realised that she knew…
She would bear no children now, save at the god’s bidding.
She would not cook or weave for her man.
She had been marked for the enclosure…
Continue reading at France and Vincent
The mists came together swirling and forming within the circle of stones. They silently danced in perfect harmony flashing colors lit by the pale sun. With a shout felt by the universe, they parted ways, dissipating into the sky and earth to await the next time to dance.
Continue reading at The Unfocused Life
I may be in the doghouse
‘Cause, “Your face gives you away,”
I’ve not a clue what she might mean…
I’d just gone out to play!
“Don’t come the innocent with me,
I know what you’ve been at…”
I wondered how, from in the house,
She’d seen me chase the cat…
“Have you been digging, girlie?”
That’s unfair, how did she know?
I thought if I could plant something
Then maybe it would grow…
I wondered if she’d noticed
That I’d trampled on her rose?
“I know what you’ve been doing…
I can see it on your nose.”
Continue reading at The Small Dog’s Blog
They came to dance with the stones. Drums found the unheard rhythm of the mother beat, opening the sacred veins. Above, ravens circled the moon, full behind a mist that would soon part. Even the children were unafraid. Perhaps even more so than their elders, for they were closer to the thinning veil. The air, stirring the tide into spring, was cool, but the fires burned with heat.
Continue reading at The Light Behind the Story
Inner hearts open
In purity or passion
Love wears many forms
Reblogged from The Light Behind the Story:
We all know the definitions and the way stories portray them. Often there is a villain who spurs the hero into action, saving the victim from an evil fate. The hero becomes the embodiment of the light, the villain of darkness, while the victim hangs somewhere in between, like fulcrum, deciding how the scales will be tipped. Who, then has the true power?
I have been thinking a lot these days about how and why we choose to be either the victim or the hero in our individual stories and how this reflects upon our collective story of human existence. I have also been thinking about how we define and cast the role of villain in our stories, and how for some a villain who fulfills the classic definition of villain-hood is actually lauded as a hero. How this casted role depends upon our subjective nature, including how we cast ourselves in our play that is life.
Continue reading at The Light Behind the Story
As I reflect,
Collecting on thoughts that affect,
Numerous happenings of the day,
Zoom by, some moments of nay and yay,
Continue reading at Kitty’s Verses
*
‘ … And look! A man clothed in linen, whose loins were girded with fine gold… His body also was like beryl and his face had the appearance of lightning. His eyes were as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to burnished brass. The voice of his words was as the voice of a multitude… and he said, “… To you am I now sent. Fear not, Daniel, for from the first day that you set your heart to understand, your prayers were heard and I am come for your prayers… I am come to make you understand what will befall your people in the latter days. I will show you the literal truth of these things. There is no other that can do this.”‘
*
It is very difficult to find any illustrations for this piece.
Perhaps that is linked to the Hebraic injunction against graven images.
*
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
—Do you know what those stones are? Why, they could be anything. Sentinels over a sacred place, forgotten long before the world remembers to forget you. They could be the guardians of some terrible or great secret. Or perhaps—they are the standing graves of the chieftains who have gone before us, kings and queens rotting under the earth—
“Now you’re being morbid,” said Molls wearily. She sat down next to one of the stones, letting her back rest. “We’re never going to find my sister or the others, not in this mist.”
Continue reading at Wallie’s Wentletrap
“Awake or asleep?”
Ed was sure that he was awake, that he had gone out exploring on his own, but the world was unearthly, much more like his dreams.
He thought about the journey that he had been on each night, through the pillars and then trees, down to the sea. Where was he going? And was he following a similar path while walking in the sunshine?
He shivered.
Not that there was much sunshine.
The feeble home-star was attempting to cut through the thick fog in vain, hanging like a ghost in the sky. The world had been erased in grey, except for green path forward.
Continue reading at Trent’s World
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 