Tracking an Unshapen Land
rearriving..
and I push
the door open
fallen
ash on the grate
heather and feather
dessicated
from a low sun
branched dials point to corners
the cold bed
the cobwebbed pump
from transparent matter
a conversation of sea and song
I throw my map into the fireplace
banked embers rise
living water flows
tea steeps
outside in the wind
woven blankets flap
in cool undercurrents
wandering geese
fly home
yellow butterflies
over the sunlit garden
a buzzards shadow
falling
from the sun a black star
swoops low
Waiting
Invertebrate sand to stone
Caterpillar grass to cloth
Golden bark to paper
Gathering
In the courtyard of the women
A violet essence rings
Through translucent porcelain
and crimson flowers reign
On pomegranate trees
A cuckoo calls
Bringing acorns to eat
A bitter feast
Darkness, shadow, light, shadow, darkness, light, shadow, light
Resting in the dark
Feeling the difference
of grit from seed
Choosing
I stand inbetween
Where two ways meet
and I hear singing
Singing with slips and slides, rattles, cracks and flickers, flutters of leaves
The sun lifting their soft pale undersides
I make my way
a coal and coral fashioned pot
Containing seeds
and a modicum of grit.
Another black Madonna, this one brings the message ‘ nothing is lost ‘…
I have been on an online painting pilgrimage to the Black Madonna. The ancestor of the fertility goddess, the collision of the divine feminine through history. She reveals herself having shaken off all the overlays of culture, the imposition of religion and the strictures of patriarchy…
