Really excited to be a part of the October Kiddylicious campaign. Ember loves these snacks so it’s no hardship at all spreading the word about how yummy they are!
I think her current favourite is the soft apple biscotti, although like any baby, she changes from day to day! We’re taking some to the baby group tomorrow to share the love.
A wand. My wand, actually. Rosewood bark is hard to draw!
Chickens on a spit held by supports emerging out of twin vortexes roasting over a stylised fire. Why? No idea, I’m afraid.
I’ve never done inktober before as I don’t really think of myself as an artist. I was drawn to it this year though. No idea why! I think I maybe just needed a break from writing without stopping being creative, if that makes sense?
The prompt for October the first was ‘poisonous’. I had been studying mandrake for an article for Pagan Pages, and based my first ink attempt on an old botanical print. Somehow, the feminine aspects of the plant really shouted at me. See what you think.
I’m an autumn photography addict. I can’t help but get snap happy at this time of year. Colours leaps out at me from every angle and I want to capture it, hold it, cling onto it as if the fiery colours can actually warm me. Expect a few more like this as the season progresses.
I love the way the red maple leaves look against the brilliant blue sky. What’s your favourite autumn colour?
Joyous Alban Elfed, the light on the water.
Happy first day of autumn, according to many almanacs.
Merry Mabon, to those who honour this name.
Happy Harvest Home, the last grain being stored.
However and why ever you celebrate, may this moment of balance and reflection before the dark starts to outweigh light treat you kindly, and with some joy.
If you have a spare three quid burning a hole in your pocket, why not come to Otley Courthouse next Saturday? I be performing some poetry, alongside many other poets, vying for the coveted OWF Press Spoken Poetry Prize!
Will I have any corn to bring
To place on the stone within the ring?
Will I have flesh to cut and burn
And place inside the bubbling urn?
Will I have neeps and spuds and carrots
To fill these wide and simmering pots?
Or shall I send my body’s milk,
Sweet like parsnips, smooth like silk?
Enough to feed a baby small
Enough for summer, more for fall
And more for winter still, my stock
Is never under key and lock.
I am the harvest, am the land
Though Tailtiu never took my hand
I was not cleared; I am not feared
I am the wise and wandering band
I am the morning, fresh and bright
I am the weary, sleepless night
I am the fractious, fretting squall
The wind, the wet, the weathers all
And on Lughnasadh morn, I sigh
I wipe the slouching from my eye
I bend to suckle, stroke and hold
The family, the one; the whole.
My arts to feed the ones I need
To fill my full and brimming soul.