Poetry

They Come

The moon is out and with it come

the calls of the Wild Hunt. Do not

stand frightened if you see them. Gwyn ap Nudd

at their head will rally them away

unless you were to sneak into the rings only

those foolish enough not to believe in his forests

enter. I know you won’t, you wouldn’t

be so brazen as to think the roots,

the soil, the trees are for your own use

and pleasure. Listen, can you

hear them? They come.

Poetry

Sing to me, dearest love

You caught me in the morning

among the blossom falls

and as we kept pace as the sun rose high

our true natures gave no pause.

 

The sight and the sound of life

did fit the same in both our minds,

and through deep rivers of words

we came to know we’d found our kind.

 

And then the day fast approached

though many years it seemed

when we found our similarities and differences

had sparked a love most strong and keen.

Poetry

The Thirsty Traveller

Once, I heard the trickle of a long forgotten stream

As I strolled along taking in the syrup of the noonday sun’s gleam.

My throat was dry, and so I stopped

To take a sip with cupped hands,

Realising too late that I’d been caught in black quicksand.

 

What fool was I

To have ventured without a careful glance?

Had I thought I was fair of fortune enough

To gamble with chance?

 

Some might now expect me to say I was saved

But sadly I must inform you that for me, a different end was paved.

Though my body soon disappeared underground

I now hover above the water

Guarding forever against any fools willing to clown around.

Poetry

Inner Working

Twelve keys lie on the ground, a thirteenth in my hand.

The doors, except one, have already been opened;

they spilt their knowledge over my skin.

A conclusion is not an answer, only the point at which we cease.

I could conclude here and now, and rest,

or use the thirteenth key and find the answer.

Is it really the answer I’m looking for,

or a way out of the answer altogether?

Why am I being asked what the answer is?

Because I’ve been told to find it.

That’s not a good enough reason for me.

Poetry

Far Above The Clouds

The man uncurled his fingers and looked at his palms.

Bells. There were bells, tubular ones

resting there, instead of his bag of secrets.

The rain still poured down on the mountainside,

yet the clouds were below him, not above.

His hand twitched, and he fell forwards

into the long grasses, through soil and rock

until he could not be told apart from it all.

The bells clattered to the ground, ringing

out for the valley to hear. The rain

stopped at the sound of those bells.

Those tubular bells igniting the day.

Poetry

Wield

When at last the deed was done, I slid the knife

back between my ribs for safekeeping.

I’ve been told many times that it’s not safe

to run with a knife in hand, even if you’re already dead.

Imagine slicing off the end of your nose.

How would you explain that to the charming young man

who you were supposed to be meeting for dinner

that evening?

 

Uncategorized

It’s publication day! Accidental Archaeologist: Half-Wizard Thordric Book Two is finally out!

Accidental-Archaeologist-Promo-Hardback-Ereader

As the title of this post would suggest, book 2 in my Half-Wizard Thordric series is now available to buy. Currently, it’s only on Kindle, but in a week or so the paperback will also be available. It’s rather exciting! If you love fantasy, plenty of humour, quests and YA reads, then this may be for you.

However, here’s the blurb just in case you’re not convinced yet:

Three years have passed since Thordric joined the Wizard Council. Together, with High Wizard Vey, they have reformed the council completely.

But while half-wizards can now train their magic freely and join the ranks of the mages, Thordric realizes that there are many who are completely unaware of this. Traveling to the faraway town of Valley Edge, he meets the young archaeologist Hamlet, who is traveling to a dig site where a new discovery has been made.

But not all is as it first appears, and once again Thordric has to put his magic to the test…in order to stop one of the greatest catastrophes their world has ever seen.

Poetry

Cover to cover

Hiding in the in-between,

tucked into corners and balancing on ends,

hanging from cliff faces

only to fall

into a change of pace,

your viewpoint shifts

as the plot thickens around your inner self.

You’re running wild, free,

almost off the page –

and then you hit the wall,

the final cover falling back into place,

locking you in once more.

 

Poetry

Blood Magic

The world has changed,

the blood cries to me every night,

screaming through my veins

and the veins of my heirs.

It can feel the doors closing,

feel the separation, the desperation

the fear eating at people’s bones.

 

Old as I am, the locks have never been used.

A person could walk from here to the other side

and back again.

 

Yet orders have been given, magic has been stripped

and we have been exiled,

the youngest forced to spill their life force

to form the seal.

There will be no more of us now.