Sign ~ Willow #writephoto

Death  was  tired, that just goes without saying  really. It was a full moon and this  always  played  havoc  with his  old bones. Shivering he  crossed  the moors alone  and  weary. As  he  crossed  the horizon …he  is  Death  and if  he  wants  to cross an horizon  I am not  going to stop him are  you ? he cursed his job.

As he  hobbled  on he was truly  regretting  that  he had  allowed  his apprentice  to have  the  night off  and  take his  horse out  for a ride. Death pondered  once again the pros and cons  of  upgrading  to a car or  a helicopter but  the last time  he had  mentioned  this  to the man upstairs  he had  been told in no uncertain terms  that  scary horses were, what was expected  and scary horses it  would  remain for himself  and his  three apocalyptic brothers.

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Freedom or Not ~ Sangbad #writephoto

The night was full moon as it was…is it “would be” a century ago or few years ago, or, is it “will”…I couldn’t decipher the point of the time I had looked at that transparent sign of the house–the wizard hat in the square fixed to a pole–last time…it couldn’t be the future because present give birth to future…

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Sign ~ Sisyphus #writephoto

She read the legend under the picture: “the image shows a clouded sky beneath a full moon. There is a wordless sign showing only a pointed hat, of the kind often worn by wizards…”

How strange she thought, how and when had they managed to take this shot? The full moon was there alright, and the sign. But the clouds? There was none in this quiet corner of the Universe. She’d made sure of that. There was rain too, but, as visitors sometime said, it came from nowhere.

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The Point of a Wizard’s Hat

writing in north norfolk

It’s filled with language,
thoughts and magic
that escape like clouds
to the atmosphere.
The full moon shudders,
she knows how tragic
it is for wizards to live in fear.

In fear of what, I hear you ask,
with power at their fingertips?
Fear of fickle fingers pointing,
bramble sharp tongues
and lies on gossips’ lips.
So the spells are safely hidden
and covens are scattered far and wide

but, on a rare night that’s moonlit,
you may glimpse them as they ride
the wind and clouds,
and skim the rooftops,
peep behind closed curtains’ gaps;
accompanied only by loyal familiars,
they keep their secrets under their hats.

Kim M. Russell, 14th March 2019

My response to Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo Thursday Photo Prompt: Sign #writephoto

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Secret Magic

Positive Side Of The Coin

Photo courtesy Sue Vincent

In moonlight, White as milk,
Dreamlike situation,
The evening in her blues,
Melting step by step
As if on cues!

Bewitching with secret language,
She came to me, and whispered in my ears
Did you believe in magic my child, see magic in the air and in life?
Do you believe in signs and symbols my child?

We never seek to interfere with your lives,
But you have sixth sense,
Listen to your intuition, listen to your Soul and feel the magic inside you.

With love 💖

This is a response to the #writephoto : sign curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

_________________________________

Feature Image Courtesy: Sue Vincent
© Anjali Sharma, Positive Side Of The Coin

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Is it a bird? ~ Tallis Steelyard

Reblogged from Jim Webster at Tallis Steelyard:

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Occasionally it happens that somebody is so desperate that they throw common sense to the winds and attempt extravagantly eccentric things. I have never tried to quantify matters but I suspect that there is a point at which the rational mind admits defeat and stands back to allow outlandish stupidity a chance.

If you struggle to believe me, I give you the example of Dolmor Soupwright. He was an apparently intelligent young man with prospects. He had the makings of a decent poet, he was considered sound by actuaries who would happily employ him, and his grasp of logistics mean there were Condottieri who were keen to hire him to manage their supply lines. Yet he lost his head over a maid.

Dame Hardcull was the wife of a Partannese Robber Baron. Admittedly the baron was from North-Central Partann rather than the south, so his robbery consisted more of imposing heavy tolls and taxes on those crossing his domain, rather than just killing people and going through their pockets. Indeed he was teetering on the edge of respectability, and some years later his son actually achieved it. Admittedly he achieved it partially by locking his father away in a lunatic asylum rather than merely assassinating him when he got fed up of waiting for the old man to die naturally, but we have to accept that it is a step forward.

Dame Hardcull, in the interests of respectability, had spent the summer season in Port Naain. She had taken a house and entertained her new friends and acquaintances as well as being invited to all the important events. She brought some of her own people from Partann and hired in a few local staff to provide the necessary airs and graces.

Dolmor wasn’t the sort of person to be invited to the sorts of parties Dame Hardcull threw. He came into contact with her because he was the one who took on the task of purchasing provisions of a suitable quality, plus engaging suitable artists and performers. It was as he did this that he met Talmeia.

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THE WIZARD’S INN

Iain Kelly

The Wizard’s Inn had never appeared in the ‘Top 50 Pubs of Norfolk’ published annually by the Norwich Gazette. It had never featured in the local tourist guide or any Good Food guide. The ale was bitter, the atmosphere musty, the decor dated.

Yet despite this it served a loyal band of regulars day in, evening out. Regulars who travelled from all over the world to take advantage of the solitude offered in its dark corners and quiet simplicity. Most didn’t even have to order from Larry, the proprietor, who worked behind the bar every night. He knew them all well, and they all wanted more or less the same thing – a pint, a pie and some peace.

The men would enter, place their pointed hats on the hat stand, hang their cloaks by the door and find a suitable seat. Most sat alone, although the odd group of…

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Dear Don: Culdees…

Dear Don,weymouth 017
I do like the Campbell… it could have been written for the journey we have been taking. The Culdees seem to have crept right in, don’t they? If they were ever absent. I’m not sure they can be classed as Albion’s earliest priests, though… not with the Arimathean story woven so closely through our history.

The Culdees are supposed to have sprung from the monasticism of Iona… and that would have been even closer to the original message to reach these shores. I wonder what came before that?

I still think we should go to Iona, though… one of these days. We did mention the western seaboard…

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Inside the church at Penn II

Continuing my visit to Penn, to keep my promise to Noelle Granger. The second part can be found here:

There is so much to notice in the church at Penn… far too much to take in at a single visit. Even the grave markers and monuments each have a story to tell and, while I seldom spend a lot of time reading inscriptions on a visit, here there were too many that bore names important to history to simply ignore them.

All around the church there is evidence of not only the history of the building, but of its people and patrons across over eight hundred years.

Faces, shields and heraldic symbols look down upon you are you explore. You know that each one means more than you understand… and know that you will be trawling the heraldry websites again in search of their stories.

The royal connection, going back to the gentlewoman who was nurse to kings seems to be ever present. But the symbols of a deeper lineage take precedence, because, in spite of the status of the patrons of this parish church, the Church itself predates their noble houses, and some of the original consecration crosses still survive. Lost for centuries beneath the whitewash and only recently uncovered, they are amongst the best I have seen.

In complete contrast, the window that celebrates the eight hundredth anniversary of the church uses light and colour to celebrate the longevity of the dedication.

Another ‘modern’ window celebrates the American connection by commemorating the visit of the Bishop of Pennsylvania in 1948 to the area where William Penn was born.

His ancestor had, as the window describes, sailed with William Penn, but the window was another memorial too, given by the father of a flying officer…

One little side chapel displays the banner of the local Mothers’ Union. These banners appear in most churches and are often incredibly beautiful examples of the needlewoman’s work.

The same chapel is floored with fragments of locally made medieval tiles, going back to the fourteenth century, while within it stands a simple altar…

…and above it, the Millennium painting echoes the colours of the tiles and continues the universal theme of Light. The one thing I didn’t get, was a picture of the Tudor and Stuart brasses of the Penn family. But that is because I was distracted by something I could barely believe…

It is a much older painting that is the undoubted treasure of this little church. When I saw it, I stood open-mouthed for a good while… how can colours quite so bright have survived for so long? And what must it have looked like, six hundred years ago, when the paint was fresh?

The Penn Doom is a rare tympanum painted on oak, one of only a handful to survive from the fifteenth century. According to the gentleman who came in and told me about the problems with the organ, the two right hand boards are older still. The Doom shows Christ seated in Judgement with the newly wakened dead rising from their graves. Curiously, given what we will be doing at the April workshop, he appears to be seated on a rainbow. Apparently, there may be more paintings yet hidden beneath the whitewash of this little church, and if so, you have to wonder what they yet might find. For me, though, this was enough… and hopefully, my son,seated patiently outside in the car for far more than ten minutes, would agree.

 

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Verily, Verily… Stuart France

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The thing is…

It is impossible to ‘do’ such sites in one visit.

In fact, it is not possible to ‘do’ such sites at all.

If anything, they ‘do’ you, if you allow them.

As we were about to learn…

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