FrancesWrites

15. Dec, 2017

When Merlin was young, he used to stand under the branches of an old oak tree. It was so old, its roots reached into the deepest bowels of the earth.

Merlin stood in silence, his piercing blue eyes staring into the unknown, listening to the blowing wind of autumn, the wind from the West.

At first, he didn't know the future from the present and from the past. He just felt some portent, some miracle was coming to pass, or was already unfolding in its own time.

With long, flowing brown hair, a slender body wrapped up in a red tunic, and that praeternatural gaze, Merlin was shunned by most people in the village.

He no longer paid attention. He was used to it, when people avoided his gaze and shuffled their feet with unease. 

In time, he moved to the woods, outside the village, and what had been considered just a weird boy came to be regarded as a strange maverick, dispensing advice and healing remedies to kings and commoners alike.

Only when he became Arthur's adviser, did the people start to fear his wisdom and his magic, for it was whispered he was the devil's son. Yet, nobody ever suspected or even imagined the long hours spent alone in the woods, in the silence of his hut, when Merlin trained himself to listen deeply to nature's sounds and voices, when he taught himself to recognise plants and heal ailments.

What he did for Arthur has been known for a long time. It is the stuff of legend. However, in that very day he was standing under the oak tree, was the seed of all that was to come.

Merlin stood motionless, staring into the wide expanse of the grey sea, just before dawn.

At that moment, he was a young man, with no remarkable past or present, just a shapeless future in his hands and eyes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Picture by courtesy of pexels.com

8. Nov, 2017

The web is empty at dawn:

the spider left.

Dew drops weigh it down.

In its fine intricacy it holds

the worlds where we met.

Out of light, we shared our darkness.

Out of truthfulness, we shared

our woundedness.

There was a moment

your gaze held me.

Your eyes said:

"Do not fear. I see you."

 

Picture by courtesy of pexels.com

8. Nov, 2017

Between a ring and a rose I would choose a rose
for its skin is velvet, its fragrance a melody
tickling any shy, wild soul.

A ring, with its gemstones, rubies -- even diamonds --
is hard and cold.
It is a contract, a bind, a bite off the flesh
of a passion fruit too sweet to be bargained for.

A rose, on the other hand,
has its thorns that tease and torment
those who attempt to rise to its top.
If you ever get there, to the core,
you may forget yourself in your beloved's embrace.

A rose, in truth, does fade.
A diamond ring lives on.

Yet, what's its use when we cross over into infinity
in the wake of the rose song and its scent...

Frances Fay
11. Oct, 2017

You know the story.

They said she was beautiful and sad, scorned and misunderstood by her stepsisters. Yet, a Prince fell in love with her, when she dressed up, and later sent messengers to the four corners of his kingdom to find the woman with the tiny foot that would fit into the glass slipper.

But Cinderella never wanted to marry. She squatted in the ashes of the fireplace and thought about wild woods where she could run free with the beasts and sing with the birds.

No, Cinderella was no romantic, swoony girl.

She was a little, wild thing, squirmish about the company she kept: she preferred mice and squirrels to most humans. And no wonder it was so, for her father had been fooled into a most unhappy second marriage.

That evening, at the ball in the royal palace, she had just wanted a bit of fun, to find out what all the fuss was about, but then it was fatal, for the Prince's will was set and he had no peace till he found her.

She did marry the Prince, yes.  She grabbed the chance to get out, but there was no happy living ever after, for she was a little, wild thing. Her spirit belonged to the wild elements.

The Prince -- as stony as a bulwark -- was not to be rejected.

One early morning, tired of her secluded and empty life, Cinderella left the castle in disguise, walking far beyond the limits of the kingdom, down to the dark woods at the boundary of the known world.

By the time she got there, her clothes were ragged and her hair was a knotted tangle. Her eyes, though, burnt bright like embers.

After some searching, the Prince got over it, for she had started to unnerve him. He remarried and had two sons, so his vanity was satisfied.

In the woods, Cinderella rode the golden serpent of the deep, deep river and in her ecstasy, she touched the vaults of the sky.

The gods both blessed and punished her, for she turned into an old hag seeing into the future, present and past, and she also received the gift of immortality.

Where can you find her, you do ask.

I say: in the dark heart of every woman thirsting for freedom.

 

Picture by courtesy of pexels.com

7. Oct, 2017

An ancient I is sitting on the fence with a blue-feathered raven,
listening to the wind whistling among the oaks--mothers crying for long-lost babies:

us.

They ask that we return and lean against their upright bodies;
they will shelter us from the fear that festers in our minds.

They ask that we free the voices in our throats and hearts,
that we may listen to ourselves and one another.

And as they plead for our attention, sisters and brothers,
the blue-feathered raven lingers on, still and mysterious like a Sphinx.

They are waiting for us.

Frances Fay