Haiku 1

Birds fly home to roost
Fading light paints the sky red
Accented by stars.

May Hill, A Magical Place

When the Spring returns to the land I shall climb to the top of May Hill and see the world spread out before me.

Emerging From The Dark

The mirror showed an unfamiliar face
With crevices and shards of glacial ice.
Her countenance was trapped within a vice
And fixed within a glazed and secret place.
There was no hand to help revive her grace,
Or words to softly comfort or entice
The restoration of her soul to life.
Past shadows buried deep will not erase.

But time and light can resurrect the blind
And black dogs turn and drive their demons out.
The kiss of consolation will revive
And offer salve to soothe the splintered mind.
Just as the Earth will rise to greet Spring's shout,
The tortured soul may wake and yet survive.




Angela Boyden
February 2011

Winter Flu

A pestilence has descended upon the land and the Lady has retreated deep into the Greenwood to rest and recuperate.  No new work until next year.  All is still except for the drip, drip of the thaw and the cawing of crows.

Tonight we say goodbye to the old year and give thanks for keeping us safe. We welcome in the New Year and send blessings and kind thoughts to all.

A Magical Day

The air has been sparkling with a deep heavy frost.  It was as if someone was up there in the sky emptying the contents of a pot of glitter.  It was floating all around us and it was as if we were standing in the middle of a Christmas card.  The temperature has been a constant -6 all day. The Lady of The Greenwood studio was draped with white cobwebs.

The early morning fog cleared and the sky became a clear pale blue.  The view of the Greenwood from the garden was drawing me all morning and I made plans to go for a walk in the afternoon no matter how cold it was.

Whisperings in the Wood

The Greenwood is wrapped in a soft white blanket and the air is sprinkled with a frosting of rime.  Leaves are outlined with a dusting of glittering white. Every branch is like a spectral bony finger stretched out to its tip.  The sun is exiled behind a dense cloud of fog. Cobwebs are petrified in ice.The world is silent and still and the birds have forgotten how to sing.

THE FABLED HARE (Maddy Prior)