Words fail me sometimes. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart. It's strange really, considering my love of words. My love of poetry and earned, genuine romance. But this speechless feeling is a kind of awe, I suppose. A soul left reeling in the face of unfathomable wonders. I'm thinking about these things as I sit gratefully in the warmth of my home. The late afternoon is quiet, the skies grey. Dusk is approaching. I'm alone and I know it's cold outside. Soon it begins to rain; the first real rain of the autumn. I have a fondness for London skies like these. Liminal skies. Falling rain and the swishing hiss of distant cars. I often go wandering in such inclement weather, but not today. Instead I'm thinking about old friends. People I haven’t seen in a while but remember fondly. I'm also thinking about how we annunciate, silently or otherwise, and how annunciation becomes creation. Through the message of some higher angel, or though secret signs in the soil. Through benediction or the study of branches. There are many ways to intuit the world. The old druids had a keen appreciation for words and their incredible power. Many believed that utterances of great magic were concealed in the sacred forests. Hidden within the Elders themselves. The oak, pine and yew. The tongues of the rivers that raised them, and the rains from which both rivers and trees were born. It seems then that there are strange, ancient words in the sea. All things return to the water in the end, don't they? Swirling and sinking. A place of birth, death and ferment. A living tempest, a chapel of the grey. Like some chalice or cauldron wielded by Cerridwen herself. The stories say such knowledge was later sought by T'alis, the night-bard. And Eth'iir, the shrouded king. I think of those legends as I sit and watch the rivulets against my window. Rain as the overture and culmination of those hidden words of the sea. A sunken language of unfathomable power. But words fail me sometimes, despite the awe. Despite all the things I've seen. If the sea truly is the grave and the womb of all language – then it's with caution and the utmost respect that I call myself a sailor. Or a sorcerer. If I had to pick one word from the endless churning foam, it would be Love. It might seem obvious or trite to an unlearned mind, but I'm older than you imagine and so I take comfort where I can find it. There's a flowing simplicity in speech, I think. And in song. Therein lies its complexity. A combining, creative potential. I hope my work here is like the rain, or a kiss. Touching gently, sometimes firmly or passionately. But always in service to a deeper understanding. An honouring of Creation's mysteries. Whether it’s the maelstrom of the swirling sea or the grey waters of a quiet London sky – we know each other. I miss you, my rain-angel, and think of you often.
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