The Tree

© Copyright Colin Kinnear and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

© Copyright Colin Kinnear and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Dreams often link us to the deepest insights of our own minds and for me they are an inspirational muse. The imagery they leave in my mind on awakening sometimes stirring deep spiritual longings, connections and relationships with the Gods, Wights and Ancestors.  Are they a call…? A message…? A shout in my direction…?

Here is one such example of an imprint made on my mind last evening…

The Tree

The rasping call of a raven cuts through the misty air,
A sodden foot purposefully steps in front of a sodden foot,
Wet crystal droplets float in the air and cling to his face and plaited beard,
Looking up with a single eye, he breaths deep as the branches of a great tree appear through the fog.

Leaves rustle and bark creaks knowingly against bark on his approach,
A light seems to flash in his eye as he looks upward,
No sign of an end to the tree’s height,
It’s form disappearing into the grey expanse.

Holding a spear in one hand, he bends,
Placing his hand flat on the ground at the base of the colossal trunk,
A deep thud penetrates the air, the mist curling outward from the trees,
A deep vibrating hum emanates from below as roots respond to his touch.

Voices from below,
Voices from above,
Voices from within, without and around,
His voice, speaking to himself and sending a message through the tree,
Their voices from every inch of trunk, branch, leaf and root join in the words,
We listen, we learn, we do, we are…

Leaky Bottom

I’ve been away on holiday, to the warmer climate of Turkey… Whilst the break and the change of pace has been much appreciated I was looking forward to returning home for a much needed English Breakfast Tea 🙂
So… Imagine the perplexed nature of my thinking as I endeavoured to make that most traditional of drinks this morning to no avail!

Leaky Bottom

I stare at the puddle just after the morning “click”,
Wanting only to quench my thirst and dampen my tongue,
Following a night of mixed unconscious randomness,
Awoken during a conversation with a purple Hedgehog.
The liquid begins to trace is winding path,
Slinking across its faux granite landscape,
Onward to the edge, succumbing to gravity,
Drip, drip, drip…
I blink once… twice…. thrice… Watching.
Wyldwood Radio adding background dramatics,
As the potential beverage, now just a puddle,
Sits on the floor, denying me my Tea.
I glance back to the source, mumbling,
A sacred curse upon the kettle,
For this morning I shall not drink,
That break of day nectar…

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