I am the Sahara sand blown north by the summer winds. Covering the fancy balcony furniture in golden dust.

I am the whisper of desert mysteries, calling to the wild hidden deep in the bones of those cocktail sipping lake dwellers. Insisting they abandon all thoughts of saving themselves from this vital moment on.

I am the first ripe strawberry of summer and the unripe blackberries in the bramble. Rumours of sweet fruit yet to come.

I am the twisted branches of the old oak and the shades of moss so numerous and exquisite as to out do the poet’s grief soaked tongue.

I am the gentle wind that makes the catkins dance and your beautiful hair whip around your beautiful face.

I am the soft rains that feed the earth and threaten to wash away your plans for an easy day.

I am the white hot embers of the fire you prayed for.
Don’t forget you asked for this, conjured this heat with your own tongue.

I am the water flinging itself over the rocks, wild with longing for the fall. White with passion and delighting in the journey, even when the destination is oblivion.

I am a troublemaker, a moon priestess, a hedgewitch.
I am a hearth tender and a grief whisperer and I am on my knees again.

Bent down low to kiss the earth and devastated by the beauty of it all.