Snowflakes as stars flash a transitory constellation, a heart's navigation here and then gone, a whispered magic of ephemeral surge, ephemeral pulse yet imprinting with bold permanence. For we are as ducklings to this old magic, this lore borne in the chancing gales, messages that speak to marrow and soul, commanding the mind to mind its own. For should true war lock in unwarranted, unjustified, unmerited then the warlocks are reborn, the Merlins rise to their Arthur's cause. "Tis the way of our fair Isles, 'tis the chivalry of a loving God, the one who gifts the magic as a pathway only visible to the kindred of love itself and compassionate ways.

December 17, 2025.

 

An aching mist of aeon’s beauty hugged the lighthouse of white and red. Chill in ethereal repose ‘twas a constellation of water-motes, motes that floated in the breeze, floated with angelic ease. To the keeper they did entreaty, in the coolest whispers they promised comfort, promised days ahead of wintry hearths. To him they bid to shelter within, safe from torment’s tempest. A-caroling they did sing, ‘Harken well, still your heart, rest your frets. Mind not Jack Frost’s freezing breath, for ‘tis but heaven’s encrypted runes of idiosyncratic-morse. Instead observe the cloud smudged moonlight, let your eyes linger on starlight freckles leagues above the stratosphere. So, treasure it, take it to your heart, guard it from the devious dark - divine magic cometh as invincible guard, weather proof and battle scarred. Inevitably dawn’s drapes will be flung full-wide and, little darling, as sure as the sun doth rise, calm clarity will prevail on sea and shore.’ And so it lingered, so it clung, that most magical of mists until the night was done.

December 25, 2025.

 

Snowflakes as stars flash a transitory constellation, a heart's navigation here and then gone, a whispered magic of ephemeral surge, ephemeral pulse yet imprinting with bold permanence. For we are as ducklings to this old magic, this lore borne in the chancing gales, messages that speak to marrow and soul, commanding the mind to mind its own. For should true war lock in unwarranted, unjustified, unmerited then the warlocks are reborn, the Merlins rise to their Arthur's cause. ‘Tis the way of our fair Isles, 'tis the chivalry of a loving God, the one whom gifts the magic as a pathway only to visible to the kindred of love itself and compassionate ways.

2024

 

Magic hath a heart of spring-shine, the kind that cossets creation’s seeds. As rescuing tender tendrils, it lashes into the dank dark caves, into crack and crevice fearless, brave, devoid of callous countermand. The faintest flicker of light it doth cradle, doth shield, doth protect. All hope is thus borne out as fallen starlight’s own sweet embryo. Magic thus teaches in sub-auditory whispers, not silence yet by silence’s name, such acorns how to become oaks, how to become figures of lore, of legend, of mightiest myth. For such halo fragments, heaven given, heaven bestowed - belong not in the grim, in gravest filthy rock-tomb. Harken here, harken all, four such arboreal gems birth of forests galore; each a treasure of the tribes of yore. Make no mistake, make no act of foreign folly, ‘tis the magic of Excalibur, of Merlin, of the days of King Arthur and Camelot that flows from Arthur’s Seat as salutation’s salve.

2024

 

Merlin in chameleon subterfuge, speaking in unspoken words, did thin the ice under icy beasts, icy beasts of confident stride, each footfall a philistine's stride. Though they slew in thick and fast, believed immune to such a magician's counter-blast, crack! Crack! Crack! Icy shrapnel, it did fly, icy shards a mile high! Down, down, down fell the sub-zero barbarians, the monsters of cold callous lore! How they sank, drowning fast. Turn Merlin did, spinning on the spot, in happiest and gayest shock. For though he was the greatest mage of ancient days, victory, triumph, was ever a long shot, a dream that can only be born of champion's chest.

2024

 

Upon the hallowed heather heath petals as blushed moonstones shone, velvet soft beneath the soles of sweet Myrddin Emrys. Even the sea hushed the shore and countless stones whispered no more, yet morphed into the magic cloak, the sacred cloak, the cloak of legendary lore. For this was The One to restore Camelot days, days of fairness, days of light - to banish vilest evil. Yes, sorcery from divine source is the restorer of all the good treasure, restorer of the spirit for which saints endeavour. And so that day, whence dawn spoke anew, whence sunrise set sweet hues ablaze in smokeless joy, ‘twas hope herself that caroled in avian song. 

2024

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Gentle Legends Revive
 

Ancestors imbue Legend’s celtic stone,
Shining heart-light into sun and moonshine,
Starlight kissed lamps bless cobbles raindrop sown,
Hearth-fire and candle-flame weave as smooth wine,
Old castle walls echo Woodland’s green-springs,
Buds opening as new eras untold,
Holy magick twirls oxygen kite-strings,
Elven birthright rolls lyrical flute-gold,
Loose laughter, rowdy-feasts, fraternity,
Liberty and love borne of core-courage,
Folk of shires and highlands warm, fair, witty,
Land of legends feeling its own heart-guage,
Humble bonhomie-pride of Folklore’s rise,
Gentle rivers under four-season skies.
*****

May 26, 2026.

Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems, Collection One.

 

Magic has its way of protecting Santa Claus, as he sailed upon that wintry wonderland he became as camouflaged as any chameleon. White sleigh, white reindeer, white wrapped gifts. Even the big man himself was snow white. And so even as the media went wild, even under a blaze of search beams, the landscape appeared empty. Heat signatures were cloaked. Sounds were muted to nought. 'Twas Christmas Eve and the most ancient of magic was wide awake.  

December 4, 2025.

 

Magic will only ever prove itself to the pure of heart, to show that it guides, protects and comes as a willing companion. For those who cannot yet make pure wishes, those who have become lost to some degree, it is better left that way until they can. Moreover, pure ones, who want to help so much and teach others how to see their own beauty, mission and purpose... trust the magic to come to them if and when it is their time. Until then, they will never believe, and that's okay.

July 21, 2021.

 

I experience magic everyday because I am an angel-witch. I cannot imagine being as I was before the transition. The sense of magic, the company of the angels and the divine, it is a form of company. Yet more than that, this kind of magick that comes with purity, emotional generosity, unconditional loving and faith - it is a magic everyone can learn. Anyone can become an angel witch, though the training program is rigorous and challenging. Being in the flow of creation is a form of pain and you have to stay in it for the sake of others. If your motivation isn't right, the flow won't hold you in. That's the way it is. That is how the art of magic, the magic of art, comes to us.

March 20, 2021.