Mysticism in the Mundane

I collect tea dust and biscuit crumbs

Letting them gather in the bottom

Of jar and tin

Like sacred ingredients for a magic spell I don’t know

Sometimes I stand and stare at these grains of mundane makings

For there is no awe there

Just puzzlement, mystification

One morning, with the dew still clinging to the leaves outside,

As the first rays of the sun are just beginning to enlighten my little world

I finally ask myself, “Why? What are they for?”

And I hear a voice soft and calm, like a rainfall of moon and starlight at midnight, whispering,

“Wait and see, my pretty, wait and see.”

Old Annie

She was hiding in the trees. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there.



Things hadn’t been the same since that last meeting out in the lane the day before yesterday. I can’t even remember what had started it. She had shouted something nasty, and I had shouted back.

I remember how it ended though. She bent her fingers in a strange way and shook her hand at me whilst muttering something indecipherable that ended with the uttering of “Sarah Brown”. My name.

I stood frozen to the spot as she spat into the dirt to seal her curse, then looked on, helpless, as she walked away, a look of triumph on her face.

‘That’ll teach thee,’ she had called over her shoulder.

They always said Old Annie was a witch, but I never believed it. Until now.

I can feel her eyes on the house.



Written for: Crimson’s Creative Challenge #153 | Word count: 152

I suspect savvy Old Annie knows exactly what the local populace have been saying about her and is now using it against them. No doubt she understands the greater power lies in the fear of the curse, rather than the curse itself.

Witch! Witch! Witch!

Photo by Adonyi Gu00e1bor on

A night of terror. Of voices in the dark, asking questions she cannot answer, demanding truth instead of lies in the face of accusation.

Dawn finds her tethered to a post. Bound and blindfolded, her heart races with fear, anger, frustrated by small minds and superstitions.

She isn’t dangerous, only different.

By the time they realise, it will be too late.

She smells smoke, hears crackling, knows the fire has taken hold. The heat intensifies.

It won’t be long now…

Written for: Weekend Writing Prompt #216 – Tether | Word count: 80 words

The Beguiling of Merlin (a poem)

Since posting the latest Weekend Writing Prompt, where the word is “Beguile”, my thoughts each time I sat down to try and write a response went to one of my favourite paintings: The Beguiling of Merlin by Edward Burne-Jones.  This beautiful picture had already inspired me to write two linked drabbles, one from Nimue’s POV and the other from Merlin’s, back in 2015. And so I wondered, could I create a 51 word poem using the 200 words I wrote back then?  The answer: yes, but not in 51 words…

The Beguiling of Merlin by Edward Burne-Jones (picture credit: Wikipedia)

The Beguiling of Merlin

Air full of the heady scent of blossom
She swayed captivatingly in the soft moonlight,
An enticing smile playing on her lips.

Words, ancient and powerful, escaped her lips
She caught his eye
And laughed sweetly.

Drowsily he watched her.
Everything about her was enchanting: her voice, her movement.
The very air tingled as if…

Returning her smile,
He knew it didn’t matter.
It couldn’t have been important.

Written for Weekend Writing Prompt 194: Beguile | Word Count: 70 – yes, that’s 19 words over…

Excavating the Archives: The Love Spell

Michelle dabbed some of the rosewater she had been brewing for nine days – whose petals had been gathered beneath the light of the last full moon – behind her ears.  Looking in the mirror next to the kitchen door, she adjusted the rose quartz charm at her throat.  What was that fleeting look she had just seen; nerves?

She frowned.  Then, cross with herself for doing so, she stretched the skin of her forehead with her fingers, trying to smooth out the damage.  That’s better.

The timer on the stove chimed, followed a few seconds later by the oven.  Soon the table was laid – the centrepiece, a homemade apple pie.  She had read somewhere that apples were sacred to Aphrodite.  Next to the pie dish sat a tarot card: The Lovers.  Michelle reached over and picked it up.

Holding it in her hand, she thought over the lengths she had gone to get things right.  No, not right.  Perfect.  Damn, she’d even found an astrologist online to check the alignment of the stars, just to see if they would be in her favour.  This had to work.  Thoughts of him were driving her to distraction.

Not that James had any idea what she had been planning.  He thought he was coming over to complete a report for work.  If she had her way, the office would be the last thing either of them would be thinking about, she mused, grinning mischievously.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if she was doing the right thing.  If she was being fair to him.  Hearts in love, she pondered, were not really concerned with “free will” and “do no harm”.  After all, wasn’t there that saying…”the heart wants what the heart wants?”  Anyway, it was love.  There was nothing evil or dangerous in that.  It’s not like I’m planning to bury a knife in his chest…

Pushing away the remainder of her misgivings, she placed the tarot card over her heart and whispered the incantation one more time.

You’ll be mine.

You’ll be mine.

You’ll be mine.

Now all she had to do was wait…

This was originally posted in May 2017.  You can find the original post here.

Excavating the Archives: Ode to a Geode


You hold the promise

Of all or nothing

The sparkling crystal interior

Of vibrant dreams

In rainbow shades

That glimmer in fairy light


Stone, plain stone

Smashed for no reason

But to see if

Like the rest of us

You are more magical

On the inside

Than on the out

A divine spark

Concealed within a

Skin of stone

This was originally posted in August 2015.  You can find the original post here.

Excavating the Archives: The Runecaster

runesShe sat on the side of the hill overlooking the town in the pre-dawn light.  Holding the pouch in her hand, she gently shook it, jumbling the contents, before up-ending the river stones onto the soft dewy grass, whispering as she did so, ‘Let them fall where they may.’

She took a moment to study the pattern of their falling; where they landed, how they landed, which way they faced.  Then she started to laugh.  It wasn’t that she was malevolent or evil, but the town didn’t like her for the truths she would tell.  But, as she told them, ‘If you ask the question, you will hear the answer.’

The town wouldn’t like the answer she had for them that morning.  The townsfolk were in for a very bad day.

‘Oh well,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.  ‘You always reap what you sow.’

This was originally posted in September 2015.  You can find the original post here.

Excavating the Archives: Far from the Goddess

~ Hecate by William Blake ~ photo credit: wikipedia

Sunlight filters through the leaves
Lazily reaching out to the earth
But it does not touch me

Moonlight bathes all in majestic silver
Boldly breaking through inky clouds
But it does not reach me

Starlit beacons in the indigo night
Safely guide the lost and wayward
But they do not save me

I am far from the Goddess

Beyond the embrace of
Sun, Moon and Stars

I am far from the Goddess

You can find the original post here: Far From The Goddess – 24 April 2017