Seek our liches in wood or grit or down in trickling dark,
In sparrow or buck or silvery fish, you'll find us never and naught;
Our fetches are clear, like unto wind, though never one and same;
We are the earthy darkling things, waned ancient 'afore men came.
On windswept lands and seven hills our crowns of old were raised,
On every tree we perched a-guard; on every tump our fires blazed!
In the lowest dale beneath our halls, whispering life took form;
We saw the sun make all things new, from every fort on every morn.
The world gapes bare, but just for you: bright air is still our home;
With Night our matron, Cunning our king, and trickery our song.
We are stealing cold and taking rot, the imps of nightly dread;
We are fluttering birds, May-warm breeze, by fearful offerings fed.
Correspondence from the far off land of motherhood in a travelling theatre - Dear friends and longtime followers of this blog, which I began nearly a decade ago... It has been very quiet here, and I am sorry: it appears that raising...
5 weeks ago