Flying in a new direction.


Snipe feathers and wood

Pheasant draws me down the lane

He entrances me with his colours

Unafraid to dazzle.

I pace, thinking how the world has taught me to be careful.

I reach the seven sisters, my Beech pioneer.

One trunk is storm damaged but still stands.

A piece of bark is loose.

I see a bird in flight and let it rest in my pocket.

Five hooded crows circle above.

Be Bold. Be Brave, they cry.

Perpetual memory keepers of Morrigan.


Floating on bog pools,

Entry ways to the underworld

Are the dark and light banded feathers

Of Snipe.

I fish them out

And up rises the bird herself

Calling and darting in a zig-zag

No shooter could hit.

She reminds me not to give up.

To dig around in the mud of everyday,

Seeking answers that will transform.


The forked stick calls to me of choices.

That place where the path divides,

Thickens my throat,

With fear.

I am five, standing at my parents bedroom door,

The terror of nightmare clings

I cannot return to bed

Or disturb their gentle snores.

I am caught on the threshold.

Part of me stands there eternally.


Returning I collect the dazzling colours

Painted by nature.

Unafraid and extravagant.

Be Bold. Be Brave.

Be your true nature.

Bog colours