image - Helen Warner There were two important and deeply personal spiritual mysteries that remained on the tip of my minds' eye this year. One was heard, a whisper on the wind, "to crown yourself in roses," the other was felt, an internal chaos that wrecked havoc within and was only later understood; the phantom death. Both were elusive, like the strands of red thread woven together by the Norns, sisters to the Goddesses of the Underworld. It felt as though the Nordic God

Image –by Shi-Nya-Nya The Songs Were like Dust In my Bones Aching Yearning to be released Blood stained fingertips Becoming fingerprints Along the edges Of the Cave wall I bury my heart deep Betwixt the hedgerow A shadow of the Land Beneath my feet I stomp Out the remedy and the rhythm To songs long forgotten That reside On the tip of our tongues These songs Were like dust Rising again from the bones Swirling Rising on the winds Of memory And were tasted R