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Clear the decks,

We have a vigil to keep.


We must make space,

For the Goddess.


(Invoke the domestic Goddess!)


We must Make space!

To welcome in the spring.

The days are getting longer now

Stretching out

Starting to squash the night again.


The days are getting lighter now

This is no time to hibernate!

The extra light shows up the dust!


Open your eyes Love

Yawn and stretch and feel the new season

Time is blowing through our fingers still.


We must set the space for ritual

We must set the stage for inspiration


Spring cleaning.


Cutting away all the dead wood

Blowing away the winter cobwebs


So fresh beginnings

And new ideas

Can make their way inside


Invoke the Domestic Goddess!

Make space! Make way!


Here the vigil begins.


The house is awake!



For Magical Women

A series of short films, poetry and rituals commissioned to celebrate the coming of spring for Imbolc. 


Did you hear that? Perhaps you just felt it in your bones?

The first shoots of green breaking ground

Snowdrop Crocus Fritillary

Gently shifting the soil and leaf litter to one side with the first searching leaf


The sun is thinking about starting to stride toward summer glory

Tentatively dipping its toes into the day before 8am

And waiting to tuck in a little longer

Sighing a little warmth into the night

With blazing sunsets as she goes


The frost of the morning will soon easily be

A shivering silver wash of the year’s first dew

The breath of the sun gathering

In droplets on the cold skin of the earth

The green fingers of spring reach up to bathe in it



The sky begins to give up its water

Let the February air kiss us dry with her chill lips

Not laced with the deathly scratch of frost like her older sister

But the fresh cold of waking in the quiet early blue

Just as the birds peel into the first song of the day

Close your eyes and dream the future


Even if it only reaches as far

As the coffee cradled in the warming cup balanced softly in your hands

Feel your weight upon the ground as the earth balances you softly on her skin

If you are quiet the old ones will whisper you words

Of encouragement in the morse code of your miraculous heart beat.




These are the times I feel close to the warrior in my bones

The moments she uses to strengthen herself

When she is on the attack and tightly sprung like a hissing adder about to strike

These are the whispering rooted idyls of home

That she with scream and bleed for in fierce necessity when her hand is forced


The cool damp fertile calm that has been forgotten in the fearful blaze of her fury.

This is the beauty

Of the promise of the first new season of the juvenile year

The slate washed clean and the energy to grow

To start again with, we start again.

For more film based poetics check out my Rusalka project...

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