welcome to my on-line home!

i’m a druid, trained with the Order of Bards Ovates and Druids. i’m very telepathic and i have second sight. this was very alienating about twenty years ago when everyone thought that if you heard voices and saw beings that no one else could see you must be declared insane, locked up, and drugged with near lethal drugs until you no longer could.

i became a druid as a result of being told by one of the more helpful, kindly voices (spirit guide) that i should get into an organisation that actively encourages and helps telepathic communion with the beings of the invisible realms. i chose the Rosicrucians first off because i’d heard of them, and knew that they were well-respected. i’m still a member, though in recess.

it was through their book-lists and advertising that i came to OBOD. i edited its southern hemisphere newsletter serpentstar for a few years – one of the best things about the druid way and about pagans generally is that many truly believe in fairies, elves, spirit guides, gods, tree spirits, plant spirits and the elementals – all the beings that inhabit the realms just beyond human awareness, whose voices i’ve have chattering in my head and vying for my attention for most of my life. my guide was right. both organisations brought about helpful transformations – and i believe any of the established pagan and esoteric paths would have done the same – and placed me among fey-friendly people.

they helped me to redefine my inherited ‘family madness’ as hereditary seership – a great gift to share with the world. my mother kept telling me ‘it skips a generation’. my clairvoyant grandmother, a gifted healer, spent time in a mental hospital for her visions and voices and a cousin of mine was ‘cured’ of them by ‘psychiatric’ treatment consisting mostly of zombifying drugs.

others of my generation have varying levels of psychic ability too. our poor planet is getting wiser and is much kinder now to legitimate seers and psychics. in this blog, in future posts, i intend to tell you all about the fairies and gnomes and elves and brownies that come thronging to my garden as they throng to any garden where they’re made welcome, and i’ll tell you how to keep them happy and healthy – and what happens when you don’t.

i’ll also talk about the ghosts, guides, angels and other beings, that use our nexuses and pavillions. there’ll also be blogs about the fauns, satyrs, devils and daemons, gods and devas that live and work around and among us too. comments are welcome, especially from other seers – it’s so helpful to compare notes.

easter bilby thinking about it

the small mammals extinctions investigations team SMEIT

observed gravely the ebb of the meaty little marsupialia

whose receding horizons repeated the retreating edge

of the two million year old oceans

and the shape of my argument

and the fading interface of conversation

between eagle


and  bilby


in the new dawning

in the new day


and SMEIT cried out across the broadening celestial beach

a-glitter (as ours are) with galaxies


and the small marsupial spirit people said

with their soft human voices

quietly packing their goods

but you’ve killed us all,

you’ve put us in missions in schools in jails

killed the dreaming places

killed the songs

killed the magic metaphysics

killed our souls

we have no magic now

and so we die

our spirits go

home to the stars

to be never reborn in the warm brown

mother beast


 of earth


and how could anyone explain

the chagrin and remorse

the pity

and the pain

for the pitter patter paws through the summer grass

and the sensitive whiskers in the straw


so for the sake of the dying children

and the sorrowing mother of the dying babes

so beautiful eyed so mysterious eyed

they captured bilby by the tail

and hauled him home

and called him divine, equal to a rabbit

and wrapped him all chocolate in gold and silver

with silk and cellophane references

to the astral plane and gt britain’s pagan past


and they magicked him whitefella-way

into kid’s playrooms

and they picture-book tjurunga’d him into

soft-toy captivity

(so he felt)

and called him an egg-giver


which scared him silly

because he’s not a monotreme


through the window into easter

bilby saw the jesus-on-the-cross

every year a jesus-on-the-cross


but the stars, the stars

are in mrs bilby’s eyes

and she’s sorry,

she just has to go


though the continent shriek

to the pleiades

and erupt with outraged totally articulate

well worth the reading

dot pictures

at the murderers

and raise magic music droning

from all campfire circles

for the dying off of species

the deaths of sentient selves


because the massacred martyrs

had gentle philosophies

and the bilby man and the bilby woman

deplore human sacrifice

and they fled.


if somebody please would explain to bilby

wtf wuth thet symbl?

the tide may very well return, yes,

if this is a good planet, the tide might turn…


so we’re walking them home with love

home from their distant palaces and plains

stitched of star rays sequinned with galaxies

into their magic marsupial mother pouch tunnels

to their blue sky green grass brown earth lives

with their houses and culture and school and technology

brothers and sisters together with us

again at last

earth-born children of star-born spirits

bringing us star spirit virtues

star spirit wisdom

star spirit magic

and the universal call

of love.

egg of my dreaming – a poem

egg of my dreaming spirit

asleep under whose airy wings

cloud downy, softer than love

spread all-wise, all-ways around you

alight with the dazzle of seeing

flashing in lively moments

of glittering meanings memory

passions and principles of play

do you dream my life so vividly

eager to give and be given to

eager to sing and be sung to

eager to know and be known?

egg of my dreaming spirit

under whose wide wings do you dream me,

wings cloud downy, softer than love

spread all-wise, all-ways around me?

The Contract: a story.

The Contract.

Leezie was a good strong girl and would have had no trouble getting a decent hard-working sailor for a husband, but she hadn’t felt the need for one and besides, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to burden themselves with the bringing up of a string of brawling brats. Bah! she thought to herself. Some girls will sell their freedom for a silk scarf and a whiff of patchouli.

Her mother had left her the family farm with its little stone cottage and mossy old well, it’s poultry runs, wort yards, bee-hives, pigsty and cow barn and the broad sunny nettle field. She made herb teas and flower wines and brewed a kind of herbal mead in her big airy kitchen, sold soap, eggs, cheese and butter once a week at the market and flowers, herbs and fruit and veg in the town, and in the evenings she spun the nettle fibres into stout thread for rope and sailcloth.

She didn’t get lonely, even in the long summer evenings when other farm families round about sat chatting and making music far into the night, because all the while she talked in her head and sometimes out loud to the animals. She chatted with the cats, discussed the finer points of dogma with the dogs, and chided the mice and sparrows when they stole from the hens in the mornings. She communed with the cows, talked with the plants and fairies, remonstrated with foxes and hawks and complimented the rabbits on the beauty of their whiskers. She told the bees everything, hiding nothing from them and she chortled and gossiped with the poultry and wild birds without distinction. No, she was never lonely.

She was not rich but it was a good fertile farm and she did quite well enough most of the time, so she was quite content, or would have been, had it not been for the rats. The two cats, Midnight the jet black and Twilight the smoky grey, kept the mouse population stabilised at a low level. Thomas the terrier did a fair job with the rats, presenting her with a sleek dead specimen once or twice a week, which kept the remaining few quiet at least for a while, but then they’d come back just as bad as ever. The mice were all right – they left surfaces clean enough, and it was only when they nested in the furniture that they really became a nuisance. But the rats were filthy beasts, and she hated them.

The cottage was old and made of natural stone laid dry with the gaps plugged with mud and moss which the rats could easily scrape away, so no sooner did she plug up one hole than two or three others would appear. It didn’t matter how spotlessly clean everything was before she went to bed, when she woke up she was sure to find some disgusting mess made by rats. Even if they couldn’t break into the cupboards and chests, you could see where they’d been trying to by their teeth marks in the wood. Even if you could see no marks, you could smell the nasty, ratty smell when you came downstairs. It made her ashamed and embarrassed about asking people in.

She’d tried poison, but it was a nasty business and they were always only gone for a week or two and the new ones were always worse than the old ones, because they hadn’t yet given up trying to break into the flour and would start in with great enthusiasm, leaving deeper grooves than ever in the wood and more of their filth all around where they’d been working.

And she’d tried traps, which were more effective than the terrier, culling all the stupid rats in no time, so that only the smart ones survived to breed, which of course they did prodigiously within a very few weeks. The resulting smart rats psyched her into forgetting to set traps and managed the terrier as a kind of tame predator, throwing him his occasional prey somewhat condescendingly as time went by, pruning their genome for optimal rat effectiveness and happiness.
And they remained filthy, bickering, snitchy-snarly, smirking, grinning beasts with no morals, no manners and no aesthetic values, though the mothers are said to be loving enough, at least while the babes are young and helpless. Perhaps they spoil them. They should certainly teach them humility.

It was while thinking thoughts like this and knitting a nettle dishcloth by the fireside one cold afternoon in autumn, while perhaps five or six fine young nearly full-grown rats were scampering in the storeroom and up above in the rafters and up on top of the cupboards and behind them, that she heaved a sigh, rested her work on her knees and said to the boldest rat, who was finding fallen grains of wheat in the gaps between the flagstones, ‘Oh you are a fine rat, sir!’ Because after all, one should always be polite and look for the best in one’s fellow creatures.

Now, there were usually about five or six at a time, rarely more, since the litters would disperse fairly rapidly, driven out by their snarling parents and ill-natured stronger siblings. There’d be a big male and two or three breeding females, which were usually pregnant or hidden away with a young litter or proudly bringing out a finished brood.

This one was one of the big males, and a civilised enough rat he seemed on first sight. Indeed, his coat was glossy as silver over a soft, velvety grey-brown, his paws clean and elegant, his ears tidy, his nose sensitive and finely drawn. His lips were only slightly curled in contempt. His whiskers were clean and beautifully groomed, and his perfect little fingers were tented under his chin as if he wished to speak. He had stopped a few paces from where she sat, handy to the door in case he needed to exit in a hurry.

At her words he cupped an ear and listened a long time after she’d finished, as if waiting for the words to waft their way in a leisurely way over to him, and gave a little nod and a sweet pleased grin as he caught, held and savoured the word ‘fine’ and appreciated its meaning, mouthing it precisely to himself.

‘If only you didn’t leave such a mess,’ she continued, not even noticing that he had spoken. ‘We could all live together here in harmonious content. You’d be as delightful as squirrels or rabbits or any other small furry animal. Why do you have to foul everything and leave filth wherever you go?’

She wasn’t expecting an answer and had actually taken up her knitting again when it came – a hoarse, slightly hissy, outraged whisper, just at her right ear, as if the rat sat there and not on the floor, saying ‘We hate you!’ She looked up, surprised that the rat was still there. He was still in the same place near the door, not on her shoulder, and his expressive little eyes were hard and angry.

Now it was Leezie who listened amazed while the meaning registered, and mouthed that angry little word to herself to feel the full emotional flavour of it. ‘Hate’.

‘Well, i’ve never much liked you,’ said Leezie after a long, slow time of thinking. ‘Nobody does. You’ve got filthy habits and you stink the place up – much worse than mice. I’m sure you could be cleaner if you tried.’

‘Dainty as a kitten, if i tried,’ the rat agreed.

‘Well, why don’t you?’

‘We’ve explained over and over,’ said the rat, flexing his whiskers.

‘I’ve only ever heard squeaking and snarling and bragging from any of you.’

‘We told you,’ said the rat, ‘in… stench. In roaring, shrieking, text-rich, sensitively detailed, totally articulate, operatically eloquent, quintessentially consummate perfect miracles of stench, illustrated in nervy, fraught visual arrangements of variegated grunge pointed up with pithy pellets of filth. But then you’re illiterate, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am as far as that goes,’ she said, with a quick involuntary shake of her head, because while the rat had been speaking, she’d let her head begin to elongate and taper towards her nose, which was fast becoming velvety and sensitive. It was the twitching of her stiff little whiskers that alerted her. She was starting to shapeshift! But yes, she’d begun to appreciate, symphonic indeed the stench, but still unintelligible to her. ‘You’ll have to tell me in words.’

‘Well, it’s not my natural medium, but I’ll try. This is a farm. Every day the animals get fed. Cow gets fed, pigs get fed, ducks get fed, chooks get fed, geese get fed, cats get fed, dog gets fed, rabbits get fed, you even plant stuff for the bees. And the plants get fed. Passers-by get fed. You get fed. You’ve even got a bird-feeder for feeding the birds. It’s rat-proof, of course. Well now who does that leave? In this whole delicately balanced farm ecology, who don’t get fed, who have to steal everything they get like low, despicable thieves, slandered and reviled wherever they go? One guess. Dead right – us!’
Well, he’d had his speak and he’d made himself clear. He smoothed his whiskers with both paws.

‘Why can’t you get your own food? You’re a wild animal.’

‘I’m a farm rat. We’re domestic. We’ve always shared with pigs, pilfered from poultry, taken the odd egg, got into the milk and feed, and raised our litters in luxury and grandeur. But now you rat-proof everything. I can’t get into the brewery any more. Even the compost bin is rat-proof. If you could you’d even rat-proof the whole cottage – i’ve seen you try. A rat can do beetles and grubs for just so long…’

Leezie sat deep in thought for a long moment, and then said, ‘All right, what are your terms?’

‘Muesli, same as you, every morning, enough for six rats, all sorts of grains and seeds, nice honey, sweet, raisins, lovely crunchy nuts, fresh milk all over it. Mmm. It’d be no trouble at all making two bowls instead of one. Then we won’t have to gnaw your cupboards and chests to let you know how hungry we are. We’d be nice as anything.’ He smiled sweetly, thinking about how good he’d feel. ‘it would keep us healthy too, and you know there’s nothing so unhygienic or likely to generate disease as a population of sick, starving small furry mammals…’

‘Muesli, that’s breakfast. What about dinner and tea?’

‘No, we can forage for that – and clean up your insect pests, grubs and snail eggs. Fallen fruit, nuts, dead things, stuff lying about rotting. Mmmm scrumptious. And you won’t begrudge us the occasional egg, or a bit of bacon rind now and then.’

‘All right then, anything else?’

‘Revile no more the rat. We’ll give you a year’s probation and if we get fair courtesy, kind words and muesli, we won’t have to roar so loud in stench.’ He stiffened his whiskers again, giving them a little shiver of finality.

Leezie was about to ask one last question, but at that point, the dog came in and the rats were gone with a rattle and a clatter. The rest of the evening was uneventful.

Over the next few days she asked everyone she knew what they thought of rats and it’s true, everyone without exception loathed the poor rat. She was quite shocked. ‘Zooks, hadn’t it suffered with us through plagues and misfortunes and been our loyal companion in times of plenty too? Hadn’t we sailed the seven seas together, bold and hearty through all the deadly dangers of the cruel sea?’ She seemed to feel his urgent little spirit still sitting on her shoulder, and to almost hear his outraged whispering as she had during their close encounter.

And meanwhile, she kept her part of the bargain and the rats got a nice bowl of warm muesli every morning for breakfast. It certainly kept them out of the larder. And they kept their word. She woke every morning to a clean, sweet-smelling kitchen, and not a trace of the rat dirt of yore.

And they lived in peace and mutual goodwill together ever after.

elixir, a poem


deep in the sacred centre of my genesis
the root of my craeb the fountain of my spirit
the loud-crying stone of my validation
the spark of my flame’s ignition
there are my many destinies, infinite and eternal like seeds

sometimes I feel I could reach
through the marbled liquid layers of my years
to the first cry of my life
the first beat of my foetal heart,
the wild radiant moment of the fusion of gametes
the weaving of worlds in the twist of their nwyfre

and in the palm of my hand,
cherish, cradle and nurture the seed,
sheltering the incubation of my own genesis
in the union of the many sainted angels
whose lives have spun the fibres of my being.

when I feel around the pain and the joy of my life
the cradling palm, perhaps the sweet elixir
that entrances me anew to life’s enchantment
drips after all from the full voluptuous fruits
of a ripe and radiant destiny yet to be conceived

and still I follow its gleam, rapt in a ray of in hope.

whatever happened to sheilah?

whatever happened to sheila?

‘daughter, what would i do without you?  you’re my only comfort now that your three brothers have left home. how cosy we’ll be with just us.’

‘well, mama, what if i marry?’

‘who would marry you? you are too skinny and ugly. besides there’s no one for you here that isn’t your cousin or nearer. even if there were there’re prettier girls in the towns. a man not smart enough to look there isn’t worth having. you stay here with me.’

‘well, johnnie ransome catches up with me sometimes when i’m going for the mail, and we walk to the post office together. he’s nice. i think how it would be to be married to him, and what our babies would look like.’

‘johnnie ransome? never. he’ll be like his dad, a lazy drunkard with no ambition and no manners. i would never consent. you don’t need a man. stay here with me… was that someone knocking?’

sheila got up from the table and crossed the room to the door. an icy wind came bustling into the cottage and swirled some snowflakes across the floor. sheila leaned out and looked right and left and then closed the door.

‘can’t see anyone,’ she said, ‘it must have been a branch hitting the window,’ and returning to the table she began to clear it, but her mother stopped her. ‘we’ll have our coffee first, then we’ll clear away.’

she was pouring it when something began to clatter at the door and it didn’t sound like a branch tossed by the wind. sheila was sent once again to open the door, but found no one there.

they were settled either side of the fire with their coffee mugs on their knees listening to the keening of the wind when they both heard the knocking again. ‘well it can’t be a branch,’ said sheila, ‘because there isn’t one that could hit the door.’ she opened it again and this time she looked not only left and right and straight ahead, but also up and then down, and she screamed.

there on the step was a tiny man not quite up to her knee.

recovering herself she remembered her manners and invited him in. another swirl of snowflakes followed him in and she shut the door quickly. her mother stared in amazement.

‘step up to the fire!’ sheila said. ‘i’ll get you a seat.’ she found the kitchen stool and a feather cushion and brought them to the fire. they looked far too big for the tiny man at first, yet when she had placed it for him he sat right down upon it and it was exactly the right size, though nobody saw anything change.

the tiny man smiled gratefully. he wore pin-striped trousers and tails and carried a tall top-hat and cane. his shoes were well-mended and polished. ‘terrible weather to be out in. kind hearts you have indeed!’

‘well, i hope so!’ said the mother, fully recovered. ‘have you had tea? we have but little but what we have we share. sheila, bring the man a plate of something.’

sheila put some fish and a piece of bread and butter and some salad on a small plate for him. it looked enormous as she handed it to him but as soon as he took it it appeared just the right size, though nothing changed.

the food cheered him, and they found they had some beer for him, and they passed the night in pleasant conversation, the two women hardly noticing that he told them nothing about himself but made them tell him everything about everyone in the district. he was clearly enjoying himself – even got up to sing a song. at last everyone was tired and sheila made him a bed by the fire. it seemed very big but when he got in it looked just right and he went straight to sleep. the women tidied the cottage and went to bed.

sheila awoke in a strange bed in a weird little room all angles and planes and the little man bringing her in a cup of tea.  he seemed very pleased. the teacup looked hopelessly tiny, but as she reached for it it became just the right size, yet didn’t seem to have changed. the tea was delicious and gave her strength. the little man showed her a beautiful green dress and a pair of green leather shoes, and told her to put them on and come downstairs.

she did so. the staircase looked like a doll’s house staircase, but as soon as she stepped onto it, it was the right size for her. the room downstairs had the same weird proportions as the room she’d slept in. the little man was playing a harp but he stopped when she came in and smiled.

‘where’s my mother?’ she asked.

‘there!’ he pointed to a mirror, and sheila was amazed to see that it was like a window looking into the world she had left and she could see her mother in it. she was staring at sheila’s bed wringing her hands and weeping. on sheila’s bed was a wooden stick.

‘oh, my poor mother!’ was sheila’s first thought. ‘now she’s got no one!’

‘she’ll be all right,’ said the little man, taking up his harp again. ‘this’ll make her famous for miles around and all the neighbours will suck up to her for some of the reflected glory.’

‘you’re a wicked, bad fairy, and you’ve carried me off. what do you want with me.’

‘well, better manners than that! you should be grateful. you never had that nice a dress before, or such good shoes.’

sadly she said, ‘they’re wasted on an ugly girl like me.’

‘you’re not ugly. johnny ransome didn’t think so.

‘oh johnny!’ for an enchanted moment she imagined him seeing her in the new dress. vanity! ‘but now i can’t have him!’ she cried.

‘your mother was right – he’s not worthy of you.’ he played a splendid crescendo of golden notes. sheila went further under his spell and became lost in the beauty of the melody, emerging when it ended to find a sumptuous breakfast laid out on a tiny table that was just her size when she sat at it. she was getting used to the strange interplay of proportions.

as she ate she glanced at the mirror again and saw her mother’s cottage full of neighbours, police, clergy and reporters, and her mother playing up to them like a starlet. sheila drank some delicious fruit juice and returned to the mirror just as the cottage faded and the road she should have been on at that time appeared instead, at the very place where johnny was accustomed to meet her.

johnny was there and yet it was pretty maggie mason who came along, just minutes after she would have, and she heard their conversation.

‘where’s sheila this morning?’ asked johnny.

‘haven’t you heard? she’s been taken by the fairies. one came and got her last night and left nought but a stock of wood. you’d better go and see her ma.’

johnny’s eyes grew wide but then he shook himself and smiled at maggie. ‘so i will – later on, but i think right now i’d rather go with you.’ he leered at maggie and she gave him her arm and off they went billing and cooing like two lovers.

‘so he didn’t want me,’ sighed sheila. ‘and you wouldn’t want me. you’re the wrong type, to say nothing of size. i want to go back to my mother.’

‘don’t take on,’ said he, but sheila began to cry and to complain and to expostulate until it took all his most strenuous harp-strumming to calm her. she finished her breakfast and washed up, putting things in cupboards as happily as she did at home. then he gave her a book to read.

how bright and detailed were the pictures, how evocative the prose. sheila was captivated, running across scented fields with golden-eared dogs, riding a fine white horse towards a moated castle, dancing among beautiful ladies and handsomer youths than she had ever seen. page after page she turned, getting more and more deeply absorbed in what she read until she could smell the flowers, hear the birdsong and the music of the fifes and harpsichords and see the beautiful faces of the characters.

once she pulled herself up just as she was identifying as one of the fairest damsels of that magical fairy kingdom being presented at court, and to chasten herself, looked at the mirror to remind herself of her own face. but the face that stared back was that of the fairest damsel she’d ever seen, and she gasped.

the fairy smiled and stroked his harp strings. she returned to the book and was soon lost in it, and lo, from among that glorious crowd of fairy dancers stepped the handsomest young man of them all, and bowed low. though he used a language she’d never heard before she found herself understanding every word. soon however the music swelled and the dance began. sheila found that she knew the steps and was soon gazing into the young prince’s eyes and never doubting that he was falling as deeply in love with her as she was with him.

and suddenly, when there she was, in the arms of this prince as truly as she’d ever been anywhere, she heard the book slammed shut with a comfortable thud behind her, just like a closing door! turning quickly, in the final fluttering of its pages she saw the last of the leprechaun’s smile, and caught the fading echoes of his rapidly disappearing harp.

but then her young prince swept her away in his arms and they danced their dance of pure pure love…

what the koala told me about the birth of the planets

yeah, he been everywhere, man, and high up in a tree he’s close enough to the stars to clamber aboard and talk to zaphod beeblebrox, or jesus or dr who and the whole star wars crew and the seven sister star girls who wouldn’t marry anyone because they were having so much such super cosmic fun.

he got in my head when i was 8 through a souvenir koala i got for xmas. he’s been my spirit guide and helper for half a century. you wouldn’t believe half the things he tells me. here’s just a sample: gaga the planet