Beyond This Keep
Lofty as they were, our aspirations held
little common ground. The ruins we share
bring me no comfort, and the walls I build
offer even less. There is more than gray
beyond this horizon, and I will find it,
leaving this darkness behind.
This is my response to Thursday Photo Prompt: Keep #writephoto
at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo, with her photo.
Perhaps this even meets the prompt from Frank Hubeny at dVerse Poets Pub for Soliloquy.
Sleepless, I lay listening to the wind, wondering what it whispered and whence it came. It moved around the house, insinuating itself through the half open window, stealing across the bed to rattle the door; a silent intruder.
Where had it come from… where does it begin? Where will it expire in a final sigh? What had its blind breath seen since its birth and what secrets would it carry to its ending. How far, how long had it come before it touched my face? Perhaps it had caressed the cheek of a stranger before me, or a love far away or even a long-ago almost forgotten. Did it carry the whisper of a name within its heart, longed for in the dark? The murmuring of lovers, of the sobs of silent grief? How many stories does it know and is its voice made of whispers or the prayers of a child?
How many breaths does it take to make the wind? And who is breathing? Is it the breath of earth or the sighing of dragons that bends the grass and plucks the petals from the cherry trees, showering children with spring’s confetti? Is it born of the butterfly or the wings of birds in the morning?
It carries the perfume of a thousand roses and the taint of as many deaths, it holds life from beginning to end with insubstantial arms, gathering all into itself, becoming one with it, echoing it in its moods. In winter it howls… vulpine and feral, tearing at brittle fingers of dying wood, stripping away the effete. Scavenger of the gods, picking clean the skeletal remains of autumn.
In summer it is a welcome caress, laughing softly in the canopy of dancing light, waltzing with dust devils in the sunshine, cooling the blushing cheeks of a first love, or the tears of a last. As the trees turn golden and weep for summer’s end it breathes upon the gravestones, revealing forgotten names and iridescent beetles, piling leaves for childlike feet to play in.
Does it ever stop, or only sleep, resting awhile in a quiet valley? Does it carry the wish of the heart in its own? Or do we inspire its inspiration?
Or is it just the ghost of a dream…
Tiny and fragile
Unseen strength conquers the wind
Inner heart endures
Reblogged from Serendipity:
Without a machine or a wormhole, we travel through time every day of our lives. We don’t do it instantly, but every photo we take is a picture of us in the past. Recent past, long ago past. All our memories are from the past and with each breath, we move one lungful at a time into our future. It is time travel, but slow.
When I was ten, I read about Halley’s Comet. I learned it would be visible in the heavens on my 39th birthday.”Wow” I thought. “I’ll be so old and I will see the comet on my birthday Thirty-nine!” I couldn’t imagine being that old — or seeing Halley’s Comet.
Continue reading at Serendipity
Gary Stocker shares the story of a murder, a ghost and a saint… whose legend I explore at the end of Gary’s post:
In the Warwickshire village of Offchurch in the 1650s a man was stabbed to death in a lane behind St Gregory’s Church. The murderer hid in the tower, escaped and was never apprehended. Shortly after though, the ghost of the murder victim was seen to follow the same route as the murderer. This ceased to be reported for a long time, until the 1700s, when it was repeated, accompanied by the ghostly tolling of the church bell. This was taken to be a portent that someone in the village would die a week later.
When some restoration work was carried out in the chancel in the nineteenth century, an ancient stone coffin was found. According to legend, it may have been that of the Mercian king, King Offa. However, he is fairly reliably known to be buried elsewhere. So it could be that of his relative, Fremund, who was an early Christian miracle worker, about whom there are some legends.
From Sue Vincent~ The Legend of St Fremund
The legends mentioned above state, with the usual factual inaccuracies, that Fremund was the son of Offa. His birth in the ninth century had been foretold by a child who lived but three days. When Fremund came to the throne, he gave it up only eighteen months later, in order to follow a holy life. He set sail for an island infested with demons where he lived for seven years, eating only fruit and roots.
When the Vikings attacked and killed King Edmund, Offa sent twenty men to seek his son and beg for his aid. Fremund had a vision, in which each of his companions seemed to be a thousand to his enemies, and set off to battle, taking the twenty men and his own companions to defeat an army of forty thousand.
But as Fremund gives thanks for the heaven-sent victory, he is betrayed and a Christian turned pagan beheads the saint. As the blood washes over the traitor, Oswi, he is struck by remorse and begs forgiveness, both human and divine. Undeterred by the minor setback of death, Fremund grants Oswi absolution, before picking up his head and walking away. He stops at a place where a new spring bursts forth and washed away the blood.
This makes Fremund yet another of the cephalophores of saintly legend from this period…the saints who, once beheaded, pick up their severed head and walk away. It also adds him to the ranks of the many beheaded saints whose death caused a healing spring to come into being, as well as adding him to the ranks of those who speak after the beheading, placing him in the company of Bran the Blessed.
Fremund’s body was carried to Offchurch for burial, then later moved to Cropredy in Oxfordshire where his shrine became a place of pilgrimage and veneration. In the early years of the thirteenth century, Fremund was again moved, this time to Dunstable Priory, where he would rest in peace until the Reformation destroyed his shrine.
About the author
Gary Stocker graduated from Coventry Polytechnic in 1991 with a degree in combined engineering. He worked in civil engineering for nearly twenty years. For the last six years he has worked in materials science and currently works as a test engineer. His hobbies and interests include voluntary work, conservation work and blacksmithing. He is also interested in history, mythology and folklore and he says, “most things”.
How did your granny predict the weather? What did your great uncle Albert tell you about the little green men he saw in the woods that night? What strange creature stalks the woods in your area?
So many of these old stories are slipping away for want of being recorded. legendary creatures, odd bits of folklore, folk remedies and charms, and all the old stories that brought our landscape to life…
Tell me a story, share memories of the old ways that are being forgotten, share the folklore of your home. I am not looking for fiction with this feature, but for genuine bits of folklore, old wives tales, folk magic and local legends. Why not share what you know and preserve it for the future?
Email me at findme@scvincent.com and put ‘Living Lore’ in the subject line. All I need is your article, bio and links, along with any of your own images you would like me to include and I’ll do the rest.
“What,” asked my correspondent, enquiring about the School, “is magic?” It is not the first time I have been asked that question, once the difference between performance magic and the magical work of the esoteric path has been established.
Read any tale of magic, or indeed, the centuries-old treatises and grimoires that survive, and you would have to assume that magical work is all about gaining control. Spirits, demons, elementals and angels, all are to be summoned by the magician and bound to his bidding. Even those who have trained within an established and respected magical system will still use the old forms that look and sound as if this is the case. Young students who are just starting out on their path may well hold a vision of standing on a mountaintop commanding the storm like a Hollywood Merlin, anticipating the wild exhilaration of power. Are they deluded? Is there something real behind the dream? Or are they simply destined for disappointment?
The universe is held together by vast, natural forces; amongst them are many things science does not and may never understand. Is it really possible for a single human soul to take control of the machinery of the cosmos?
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
Sugar frosted blooms
Softening the edge of dawn
Winer sun reflects
Reblogged from Jim Webster, aka Tallis Steelyard:
Never let it be said that I do not have a wide circle of acquaintance. There are times when I cannot walk across Port Naain without being accosted by persons of all walks of life, (only a small minority of them creditors, bailiffs, or similar riffraff). It seems that my proud boast that a great poet can rub shoulders with all levels of society is actually true. Who would have credited it?
But as a city, Port Naain itself is willing to accept people on their own evaluation. Anybody with money to spend, be they a free-spending brigand from Uttermost Partann, a pirate or a tax official, will be made most welcome. Indeed even an indentured labourer who has, with the stroke of either a pen or an axe, paid off his or her indenture and earned for themselves the contents of their employer’s strong-box, will find a high place in society, at least until the money runs out.
Continue reading at Tallis Steelyard
Reblogged from Jessica Bakkers:
It’s been a few weeks (and a few books) since I finished the epic conclusion to D. Wallace Peach’s fantasy series, The Rose Shield, and naughty me hasn’t yet written the review this book – nay, this series – deserves. So, without further ado….
Kari’s Reckoning – The Rose Shield Book IV – D. Wallace Peach
![Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) by [Peach, D. Wallace]](https://images-fe.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61RF2TMc8TL.jpg)
This – the fourth book and conclusion to the Rose Shield series – delivers action, intrigue, emotional sucker-punches, surprises, and a solid satisfying ending to a wonderful adventure series that has largely followed protagonist Catling and her struggles in a world of politics and influence.
In this installment, Peach really brings home the themes of power, morality and free-will that she’s toyed with throughout the series, and not a single character comes through the battlefield of the series without scars – be they physical or emotional… or both.
Continue reading at Jessica Bakkers
Photo by Sue Vincent
I sit in my tower keep, watching across the wasteland waiting for Rodrick to blink, knowing full well that he is doing the same.
It is a well-known bit of wisdom that to have a strong castle makes one a little king over his surroundings. If any have the impedance to attempt to fight back, it is easy enough to retreat behind the strong walls to gather strength before doubling the attack.
The real kings on their high thrones did frown upon us little lordlings and our castles, but that didn’t’ stop me.
From my castle keep I was able to rule a wide swath of land, taking what I wanted, when I wanted.
And every day I wanted more.
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