As the sky fell in, she waited for the Angels. They were late. If they arrived after midnight, everything would be ruined.

At 23:44, Mary pulled the woollen wrap closer to her, knotting it around her bare fingers. The snow wouldn't fall this year. Instead, descending clouds dropped lumps of crystal rain, accompanied by swirling howls of a late-December thunderstorm. The street lights were still on: the Council wouldn't plunge most of the town into darkness for another hour and a quarter. In reflection, melted into the blackness above, their orange became dirty brown, matching the Estuary waters nearby, invisible from here. The tide was due, dragging with it bubble-wrap seaweed, which it would spew onto the absorbent sand, casting it out like unwanted ice from a glass of gin.

She poured herself another. Dropping the bottle back on the grass, she thought about the moon and how similar the two of them were. At times they were naked, exposed, incomplete. Tonight, they shared a shrouded obscurity. Did Luna also wish to break through, show her worth, incapacitated by fear, overshadowed by others who were, after all, only transient, fleeting? Did she feel trapped too by the endless cycles, watching the same scenes unfold over and again, each time slightly altered but fundamentally replays of what had gone before? Were they both carved of hard rock, unable to alter in any meaningful way, pulled by a force they couldn't see, attracted to the inevitable, destined to be satellites, moving but never really getting anywhere?

She might be hidden to anyone else who happened to be looking skyward but Mary could feel the intensity of her Kindred, waxing in time with the swelling of Mary's love, a love that she had sworn never again to share with another, not wanting to have her power diminished. Not after this, the last time. There was, it seemed, no Earth equivalent for Mary and that, surely, could bequeath her certain freedoms? If she never formed half of a whole, if she maintained her own completeness, she could shine anywhere she chose. Nothing could be taken from her, she would rely upon her own gravity, achieving a unique buoyancy, light of heart and free from burden.

It was the only way.

Staring hard, she realised that she could penetrate the mud of the clouds, sift through the silt of the sky, reaching the only mate she would ever need. Out here, at the end of the world, she sniffed an air that carried with it salt, smoke, movement. If she belonged to no-one else, this could become hers alone. There would be no need to divide it, water it down, weaken the experience, weaken herself. She could become it at will, keeping the light within herself, drawing from it when necessary. Mutually supportive yet distinct entities, unencumbered by harsh words, not subject to unwanted sex. No demeaning glances, no put-downs, no marks left by body blows with a garden broom. Light. A life without him, in whatever physical guise he took this time but, instead, a world with the Angels. Kind. Away with the lies, the deceit, the rape, the panic. No more cigarette burns to her upper thighs, finished the pushes down the stairs, gone the estrangement from her friends and family, disappeared the dominator's hands around her throat, vanished the black streaks of mascara she could wear for him alone.

At 11:57, the clouds parted only for Mary. Finally, they were on their way.

The End


Cycle #1

History recounted without script
Through generation

At the summit
Truth is exposed
A child appears
To understand

On the path to manhood
He suffers
To find
A meaning



“This is where you ought to be,” she says, resting the glass upon her lap.  “I sensed it the moment I arrived.”

Once again, I become aware of the caves beneath me, the calcite tickling my brain, penetrating, erasing all fear.  

“And you are protected.  He is here, watching over you.”

“Who is he?”

“The robed one, standing tall, directly behind you.”  Her eyes hover to a spot beyond me but I do not turn to look at the dark passageway of my home.  “And he wears a curious article on his head.”


“A helmet of some sort, rounded at the top, delicate barbs pointing downwards.”

“A Centurion?”  Recognition shoots through me.

“Not quite but, yes, it’s a good enough analogy.  Anyway, that’s only a detail; you have a path to follow, you will share your knowledge. This is the place.”

Below us, water trickles unseen, following the tracks of millennia.  It unfolds: a tale of death and renewal, layers of history fossilised among the carboniferous limestone.  Waiting, patient.

“Reveal all, they will understand.” 

The bottle of wine is empty.



Night falls on Worle's End
The harvest is in
The bonfires lit
Our veil becomes thin

So gather the living, the Dead
And the done
The feast is upon us
Now all are as One



The sun crosses
The Celestial Equator
Day equals night
Night equals day


Respect the Dark
Relinquishing light
Reflect on the past
Rebalance is now



We belong. 


The Channel

I am the only tree here: my branches remain free yet motionless alongside my trunk.  My legs are strong as they stand on the hillside, the unseen thread reaching to the sky above, lengthening me.  Below my splayed feet, the thread weaves itself into the earth, down to the limestone of Worle’s End, filtering out into maybe millions of smaller fibres, clinging to the world beneath, giving me balance.  Fortitude is mine.

Oscillating between Brean Down and Uphill is excitement, anticipation, expectancy.   The Down enters into me and reveals its message, clear to read and, absorbing the frequency, it becomes evident that I am the conduit.   I am ready. 

There is no need to alter my stance.  I cannot.  The message grips my entire being and a sketchbook in my mind draws the scene that is being communicated by that promontory jutting out into the Estuary.  Watching over the River Axe, Uphill waits.  I free the image, pushing it outwards, guiding it across the bay, relaying the message in the surety that Uphill will inform the others, whom I am unable to reach.

“They have arrived.”