Little Norbyrt

 In dreams, he was the Little Match Girl, spending hour after mesmerising hour in front of fancy, colourful windows on perishingly cold evenings.

Accepting of this cruel fate and waiting for the warm embrace of Grandmama.

  

 

 Grandmama, did not however, pull him tenderly into her warm breast when the chill found him.

  It was the Governessa's icy fingers, that grasped this little one, and took him down among the willow roots to join her brood.

And hence, the fate of that sorrowful Little Norbyrt, was sealed one chilly winters eve.

The Wanderer

On winters' eves, a wanderer traverses the paths amongst and between the threads of the seen.

A traveller of pathways above and below, the woodland realm is and is not always so.

'Twixt  human, Fae and Dark Ones she rides, where night begins and twilight dies. 

Deep into the shadows where all fears reside, in her spotted carriage alone she goes.

Sweet Magda Fair

A timorous girl,

But no fool was she,

Having encountered the Fae,

Of the old willow tree.

No dream was this,

No slumber deep

That lustful sprite began to weep,

And wail he did and pound the floor,

Promises were made,

 and yet,

more and more.

Alas, whilst wise her eyes,

Her heart was green,

His ficklety unoticed, unseen.

Sweet Magda fair, with the silvered hair,

How brightly she shone,

Though when sweet petals were gone,

All that remained was the bitter, sharp thorn.

Leaving soft, alabaster flesh, bloody and torn,

Gaping, with a yearning too painful to hide,

Weeping silently she tried,

To forget the vows from lips untrue,

And from her heart all love she slew.

Thus, sweet Magda fair,

Shows no more,

The brilliance of her silvery hair.

Wrapped tightly in a shroud of black,

She knows now,

 That fickle sprite will not be back.

But still, 

She waits,

No longer pining.

She dreams instead of dining, 

On his heart, still beating,

However fleeting.

Whilst he thrashes,

And pleads, 

Growing faint as he bleeds.

Soft, alabaster flesh torn.

A taste so sweet.

'Aah' sighs she,

Now replete.

Magda's tale was a twist on a ballet called La Spectre De La Rose choreographed by Michel Fokine for the Ballet Russes in 1911. 

Originally danced by the magnificent Vaslav Nijinsky and the ethereal Tamara Karsavina, 

with set and costumes by the master himself, Leon Bakst. 

And so, I found this wonderful 2009 performance of Manuel Legris and Claude De Vulpian for you to enjoy 

with a goblet of absinthe and some turkish delight...

The Unicorn Child

In the darkness, there is one who comes,

who whispers the most terrifying things in her ear.

And, as the tears fall, the Shadowy One collects them one by one,

for unicorn tears hold a powerful magic.

A Tale Of The Uncontrollable And Uncontrolled Ethel Eldritch.

Heeding only the wild wind's call, 

this way and that she ran.

'Til silently the dark woods enfolded all around.

 Caught in The Governessa's grasp, this little one.

 Led by icy hand, down and down...

There, deep under the Willow and darkly cocooned, the Ghastly one has her.

"Dear Ethel Eldritch, to where will you run?" 

A Glimpse of Tales Soon To Be Told

Thank you all for your comments on my rather melancholy tea party. I wish I could have visited you all more often but the rural internet connection has left me swept up in a dusty corner for the last two months. Roll on satellite!

Here a glimpse of two undone but soon to be, you shall see...

The Unfinished One And The Tea Party

She waited and waited 

and waited in vain

Oh, she'd forgotten to tell them 

she'd moved again!

Terribly sad it's true. 

But, at least there was a visit,

 from a curious moth or two!

For a successful party or three, please click the pic to go and see Miss V. 

and the mad hoards of Tea Party revellers...

The Tower

There hasn't been much of me here of late. My wandering feet have taken me off once more to pastures new and now stand hot and dusty on the hard clay earth of my new home in Eastern Spain.

Change has come with a crashing of thunder and a shaking of life's foundations. For those familiar with Tarot, The Tower sums recent times up perfectly, ferocious and terrifying but generously giving chance to clear old rubble and build anew.

The kindly folk have been so very quiet and at times I wonder if they will ever speak to me again, for I have gone so far, far away. I have a slip shadow of an inkling that they will once again find me, so, I strain my ears to the breeze and the whispering pines.

At present, life is lived with only felt and canvas separating me from the stars and raindrops. 

Night passes reading quietly by candlelight and longing for a swift, shadowy movement glimpsed briefly from the corner of my eye.

 Daylight brings with it wheelbarrows of stones, an emerging veggie patch and shade sought from the fiery glare overhead.

It's a strange feeling to have reached a dream and to realise the, at times, overwhelming responsibility of it's reality. I understand the folk who shy away from reaching for it and those who bolt just as it's in sight. For with it comes many hard lessons, questioning and soul searching and the dawning realization, that the dream, is not the end of the journey as one thought, but the very beginning. The tangible sense of creating a reality is at once frightening and exciting.

During the bright hours Mathilda lurks deep within her case and the dark silence of Eduardo my quiet, bookish faun is deafening! 

 Speak Dear Ones for I am listening...

Dark Days And Happiness

The time had come to bid goodbye to the ones that had become. 

Quentin ever nervous in his nest, with his pebble for companionship and fearsome mask to ward off any vagabonds, wends his way. Iris and Violet bound in their lichen covered cradles slept soundly for the journey ahead...

Farewell Quentin 

Iris

and Violet.

I'll see thee anon...

Unfortunata (otherwise known as Maude)

At times the Governessa gets it wrong and steals one that will never be.

Hungry soul Maude, was ravenous and longing, for just one tiny nibble of a shiny black Raven Apple.

But not for nothing are they called Raven Apples. For no sooner than she reached up to pluck one from the gnarled branch, down swooped the raven to pluck out her eyes.

Poor Maude dropped dead of fright on the spot with not a morsel on her lips.

The unfortunate one was banished to spend eternity at the point of no return for her indiscretions. 

Is that light at the end of the tunnel?

I'm afraid not Maude!

A sorry soul