Tag Archives: eerie

Corvidae

Late spring and the crows are stark against the pale sky. They skim the church and oak, chasing each other with harsh throated cries and stealing morsels from the ground. I am glad to see them. I thought they had forsaken us, the bell tower and me.

 

crows flying

 

Every year they build their nests up there above the bells and compose a discordant summer symphony as their hatchlings grow. Calls, old to young, young to old, a different peal, corvid campanology. The cycle completes as the fledglings fly, still babies but with ancient knowing in their eyes.

 

 

 

 

Gothic Nightmare

It’s National Poetry Day, so here’s a little offering from me. Sweet dreams!

 

The castle scowled on the hill,

Towers and turrets silhouetted by

Shards of lightning and a clouded moon.

Storm thickened darkness hung heavy,

Dragging on each fearful breath.

I followed the twisting path,

On and on, up and up,

Feet drawn by some other force.

Around me, the forest sighed, shifting,

Creeping closer,

Tired of waiting,

Hungry.

castle door

Photo by Judhi Prasetyo

 The castle waited, baited, dared,

Rain poured in torrents from rips in the sky,

Smoothed the stones but could not wash them clean.

Faint ghost glimmer in the windows

A sorry echo of light.

Fear choked, I tried to turn and run

But my feet betrayed me.

The arched door, old wood, rusting hinges,

One side open, as though I was expected.

I could feel it,

In the shadows,

Starving.

The apple tree and the fairy ring

Apple tree with daisies

The Apple Tree

At the end of the garden is an old apple tree, sacred as all apple trees are. Trunk straight and weather worn, branches reaching in one of nature’s perfect imperfect circles, lichen gilding the bark like silver moss. Now she has her green skirts on but soon they will become a rich array of pinks as the blossom opens. The bees will be happy when that happens. They will rest gently and drink from the tiny cups, loading up with gold before they move on, slow and drunken with sunshine.

Beneath the tree and in the grassy space beyond the faeries have been dancing secretly, late at night with only the moon to watch them. I know this because everywhere their feet have touched they have left their own tiny stars behind, like glitter in the grass. Except… we humans don’t see those stars in their true form. They look like daisies to us.

Bluebells

Bluebells among trees

Photo by Derek Harper

It’s that time of year when a purple mist appears in the woods and the banks, low over the grass and eerie in the twilight. The bluebells are ringing to call a faerie convention. Listen hard for it’s not easy to hear them. Still, they might raise goose bumps as you pass and somewhere inside, you may feel an echo of the chimes. The colour glows, broken by little luminous white stars and pink shocks of campion. Sit and watch the bells dance in the breeze but if they grow around oak trees be wary of the Oak Men, the protectors and inhabitants of the oak, who are none to fond of humans and their propensity to cut down trees with no justifiable reasons.