Merlin’s Cave

Tintagel, Cornwall, England ~ Photography by me


The dream
of Arthur
in a cave.
in crumbling ruins.
His song
heard on the wind.
My heart,

Sleeping Adventures

When I begin

to think
My dreams
have been lost
I lean out my window

Let the scent
of the flowers
in my room
mingle with the magic
of the the flowing river
and the purple heather
in the distance.

Surely this is
the stuff
dreams are made of.

And even when
I open my eyes
to find I am
still in my bed
in a small room
without a view
without the heather
without the river
I know my dreams
are alive and well
and living in my heart
and my sleeping adventures.


What is Sacred?

There are four questions of value in life…
What is sacred?
Of what is the spirit made?
What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for?
The answer to each is the same. Only love.

~ Johnny Depp

singing the earth

Camelias in a vase on my kitchen table ~ photography by Robin Dalton

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
~ an Eskimo proverb

Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it. ~Jacques Prévert

I have seen
I have felt
I know

The earth is waking up
A bit of green sprouting
here and everywhere I look
Blossoms on fruit trees
Blubs magically erupting
from the still cold ground
promising warmth and colour

My camelias are blooming
yesterday I buried my nose in them
and almost forgot
forgot to listen to the screaming
fearful voices in my head

Today is cloudy, cold and watchful
Looking out my kitchen window
On a day with so little light
so little heart

I can see bright yellow daffodils
like small flower faeries waving
singing the earth into a state of calm.


Treetops on Brownsea Island ~ photography by me
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer –
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

~Carol Ann Duffy