Open Letter to Quiet Night

Open Letter to Quiet Night

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Tuesday February 7th, 2012 -
For one night of the year; a night of a snow moon and a wishing moon I will write this open letter to a quiet night.
There was once a house with a pink door on a quiet road named ‘telegraph street’. The house was in the midst of a small hamlet nestled between woodland and ancient mining land in the south west of England.

My mother and I lived here, with Sophie the tortoiseshell cat. My father moved back to the city of smoke when I was still a baby. Him and my mother never married and they parted ways somewhat amicably. I grasp greedily at the fragments of memories from my early childhood; birthday parties at No. 95 Bygrove, splashing in the paddling pool with the boy next door, visits to my auntie’s house (her tortoise once confused my finger for a piece of lettuce), feeding the swans on the steps of the harbour, holding a rainbow swirl lollipop at the seaside, a gull snatching a teacher’s sandwich on a school trip to the beach, karaoke with my older cousin, my grandmother’s cat sleeping in my dolls house, emptying chocolate eggs into a saucepan for a ’midnight feast’, mother reading from a giant book of fairy tales, sighting a ghost for the first time, evenings in the local park and the name ‘sugarplum‘.

Nature's Beauty and A Deep Sea Realm

January 10th
Walking home at eleven : fifteen pm, red velvet coat fastened tightly. Under the watchful gaze of mother moon, I passed the last house on the right (a small fire was ablaze in the garden). The sky was beautifully clear, and stars twinkled down from galaxies afar. I brought a lantern with me to guide the pathway, but I had no need for moonlight was bountiful.
A fox cried out in the distance, (an early spring mating call) and I echoed it with my voice.
When I reached home the rooks were still awake in the pine trees.

January 11th
Today I took a few moments to enjoy the countryside where I live; to feel grounded. I saw a dozen magpies up to their usual mischief, two felines; poised for fight or play, a field of crows, the usual friendly goats, and birds warbling merrily from their perch on the highest tree branch.

January 22nd
I miss the beauty of winter, I feel as if it has bypassed the south west this year. There was a brief spell, when it rained for days and nights, and the ocean raged with nineteen foot high waves. Wind tore the landscape to pieces. I adore its freezing wrath, the season soothes me like a blanket does a child.
The epitome of winter; frost that lingers on ground, plant and wood, icicles that hang from the cliffs above the beach, frozen streams, the beautiful snow coloured light, leaves crunching underfoot, white fields that stretch for miles, snowflakes falling, a monochrome scenery...

The Troll Who Tried to Steal the Pure Hearted Faerie’s Magic

Once there was a pure hearted faerie who lived in the forest of foxes. A very long time ago, men would charge between the trees and undergrowth in search of the rare silver fox. They would use bow and arrow to pierce through the heart and their pelts would be sold for coin. 

The silver foxes have been extinct for years, after the majority had been killed by men the rest of the troop appeared to fade away. Red foxes now reside here; creatures of the night that protect the forest from wicked spirits and harm.
The pure hearted faerie was a mage. Mortals, celestial beings and mythical creatures all visited her for medicine and sightings of the future. She lived beneath the small lake that was nestled in the heart of the forest. This is where she painted beautiful scenes of nature’s magic and tiny illustrations of her foxes.