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WALL OF A THOUSAND YEARS
Photography by Phyllis Berger
Poetry by Gillian Turner ©2024
The wanderer is as breath on stones
a gentle touch, passing
through emptiness
trailing too many yesterdays
beset by the weight
of misremembered afternoons, days
when shadows were thick as snow.
Clouds chant
music of the sky
filled with joy and temptation.
Poetry by Gillian Turner ©2024
The wanderer is as breath on stones
a gentle touch, passing
through emptiness
trailing too many yesterdays
beset by the weight
of misremembered afternoons, days
when shadows were thick as snow.
Clouds chant
music of the sky
filled with joy and temptation.
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
Invisible even to herself,
the wanderer is a whisper of mist,
a gossamer veil
plucked from the hedgerow
at dawn.
An absent presence,
no trace remains
as she passes
disturbing grasses and bracken.
Insects sheltering in dark places
watch.
Generous clouds
swaddle her memories
invite her gently, gently
This is our promise:
Your path begins here.
There will be unknown places
© Gillian Turner 2024
the wanderer is a whisper of mist,
a gossamer veil
plucked from the hedgerow
at dawn.
An absent presence,
no trace remains
as she passes
disturbing grasses and bracken.
Insects sheltering in dark places
watch.
Generous clouds
swaddle her memories
invite her gently, gently
This is our promise:
Your path begins here.
There will be unknown places
© Gillian Turner 2024
NIGHT BEGINS TO FALL
…. into a field of light.
Strange luminosity
reveals rough walls draping the land
a collective thought of paths
trodden
by those long gone.
She is embraced,
urged to walk,
to know
a wave of possibility,
a ripple of understanding
that she belongs here.
Colour, taken
from the last and first of the day’s light,
awakens in her.
Strange luminosity
reveals rough walls draping the land
a collective thought of paths
trodden
by those long gone.
She is embraced,
urged to walk,
to know
a wave of possibility,
a ripple of understanding
that she belongs here.
Colour, taken
from the last and first of the day’s light,
awakens in her.
OH BANSHEE AWAKE FROM YOUR DREAM
The wanderer
hears whispers of love,
sees her journey
mapped in the smell of damp moss,
the texture of trodden grasses.
Whispers become screams, resonant
urgent in their calling
invisible threads
leading her to high stones, vast
spaces vexed by heavy sky.
She heeds the cries, climbing hills
rock-strewn paths, sheltering often
among ruins.
Her destination is
mysteriously green,
strange,
almost comforting.
A bird
silver-white against deep shadow
watches.
Guardian of many paths,
it waits
in complete stillness
protecting the dreaming figure.
hears whispers of love,
sees her journey
mapped in the smell of damp moss,
the texture of trodden grasses.
Whispers become screams, resonant
urgent in their calling
invisible threads
leading her to high stones, vast
spaces vexed by heavy sky.
She heeds the cries, climbing hills
rock-strewn paths, sheltering often
among ruins.
Her destination is
mysteriously green,
strange,
almost comforting.
A bird
silver-white against deep shadow
watches.
Guardian of many paths,
it waits
in complete stillness
protecting the dreaming figure.
THE PATH
IS REVEALED
… alone
she inhabits a space unknown
yet strangely familiar,
haunted by silence
trapped
by rocks crawling
among ruins.
The wanderer moves
feeling the echo of chattering stones
shameless conglomerates
challenging the wind’s fingers
into turbulent whispers.
She senses an insistent presence,
an image of a white bird.
Where is her spirit guide?
Eyes cast down,
the wanderer
steps into a vague path
woven by winter storms.
Tormented by absence, her footfall
is chained by uncertainty.
Directionless
Desolate
Displaced
the wanderer searches for a sign,
a faded map, faint dotted lines
revealing ancient ways
to the land’s edge.
Listen.
She hears voices -
seaweed tendrils
singing stories of sanctuary
far below her
or ahead, perhaps
near the distant castle.
she inhabits a space unknown
yet strangely familiar,
haunted by silence
trapped
by rocks crawling
among ruins.
The wanderer moves
feeling the echo of chattering stones
shameless conglomerates
challenging the wind’s fingers
into turbulent whispers.
She senses an insistent presence,
an image of a white bird.
Where is her spirit guide?
Eyes cast down,
the wanderer
steps into a vague path
woven by winter storms.
Tormented by absence, her footfall
is chained by uncertainty.
Directionless
Desolate
Displaced
the wanderer searches for a sign,
a faded map, faint dotted lines
revealing ancient ways
to the land’s edge.
Listen.
She hears voices -
seaweed tendrils
singing stories of sanctuary
far below her
or ahead, perhaps
near the distant castle.
COME OUT AND SHOW ME YOUR MAGIC
Completeness is here
she feels it.
A threshold
emptiness filled with intent.
Step after step
a journey with doubt and imagination
reminders of lost dreaming spaces
places where a staircase
revealed carcasses of bedrooms
weighed down by emptiness
scattered with absent bones
laid to rest elsewhere
before her time.
Sea songs and fireside music
absorbed by rough walls
repeat sounds long gone
always present to those who listen.
The wandered is blessed -
an imagined dwelling now
solidly present, within reach,
surely.
She embraces the illusion.
Her stick is ready.
She calls, for what?
Direction?
Comfort?
Clarity?
The cottage gives her only lost music.
Distant
vibrating harp strings offer
resonance that
touches her soul.
This is not your place.
Eyes down cast, the wanderer leaves
an empty hearth and rotting boards.
Sightless windows gaze
as she walks away
vulnerable as the wild cliffs,
knowing she will be safe soon
she will find her path.
she feels it.
A threshold
emptiness filled with intent.
Step after step
a journey with doubt and imagination
reminders of lost dreaming spaces
places where a staircase
revealed carcasses of bedrooms
weighed down by emptiness
scattered with absent bones
laid to rest elsewhere
before her time.
Sea songs and fireside music
absorbed by rough walls
repeat sounds long gone
always present to those who listen.
The wandered is blessed -
an imagined dwelling now
solidly present, within reach,
surely.
She embraces the illusion.
Her stick is ready.
She calls, for what?
Direction?
Comfort?
Clarity?
The cottage gives her only lost music.
Distant
vibrating harp strings offer
resonance that
touches her soul.
This is not your place.
Eyes down cast, the wanderer leaves
an empty hearth and rotting boards.
Sightless windows gaze
as she walks away
vulnerable as the wild cliffs,
knowing she will be safe soon
she will find her path.
MY SPIRIT GUIDE
There is shelter in soft green,
its gentle foliage
a library of unseen lives,
quiet dwellers
in an ancient land.
Watched
by bovine eyes
the wanderer is called
to her spirit guide
a ghost animal
motionless
solidly intent
intense.
She is held
in vast connection.
Silken darkness flows
as a river of trust.
Take my strength, see
beyond me
in bright fields
there are others,
tranquil souls
waiting.
Walk in gentleness,
my spirit friend.
Leave no trace
of your passing
through emerald hills
wind-blown reeds and golden flowers.
Go to the high cliffs.
Farewell, my friend.
Farewell, my friend.
Her spirit guide
an imprint of emptiness
overflows with light.
The wanderer remembers bovine eyes,
knows they are guiding her
safely across
rough ground.
Somewhere, the white bird is sleeping.
She can hear its tiny heartbeat
in every footstep
of her journey.
its gentle foliage
a library of unseen lives,
quiet dwellers
in an ancient land.
Watched
by bovine eyes
the wanderer is called
to her spirit guide
a ghost animal
motionless
solidly intent
intense.
She is held
in vast connection.
Silken darkness flows
as a river of trust.
Take my strength, see
beyond me
in bright fields
there are others,
tranquil souls
waiting.
Walk in gentleness,
my spirit friend.
Leave no trace
of your passing
through emerald hills
wind-blown reeds and golden flowers.
Go to the high cliffs.
Farewell, my friend.
Farewell, my friend.
Her spirit guide
an imprint of emptiness
overflows with light.
The wanderer remembers bovine eyes,
knows they are guiding her
safely across
rough ground.
Somewhere, the white bird is sleeping.
She can hear its tiny heartbeat
in every footstep
of her journey.
COME THIS WAY
Journey is power
hope
transformation.
This place is a new threshold
where sounds of birds
offer her direction
on a knife edge.
Fly or ride?
A ‘blind’ horse
partially masked in blue
will see and hear no evil.
Still, it speaks through timeless whiteness,
a harbinger of power and change.
The wanderer is elated.
A new messenger
ready to guide her
away from this uncertainty.
She sees the white horse as a sign of hope,
spiritual connection, perhaps.
No words pass, only colours
white and blue, green and deep granite
visual language offering her unfettered boundaries.
A veil has been lifted, or so it seems.
The bird is here, wings folded,
impassive
claws chiselled
into its rocky perch.
Another horizon looms.
Another green. New.
She will not tarry here
in a land of many ruined walls
of many abandoned lives
there is always another dwelling place.
hope
transformation.
This place is a new threshold
where sounds of birds
offer her direction
on a knife edge.
Fly or ride?
A ‘blind’ horse
partially masked in blue
will see and hear no evil.
Still, it speaks through timeless whiteness,
a harbinger of power and change.
The wanderer is elated.
A new messenger
ready to guide her
away from this uncertainty.
She sees the white horse as a sign of hope,
spiritual connection, perhaps.
No words pass, only colours
white and blue, green and deep granite
visual language offering her unfettered boundaries.
A veil has been lifted, or so it seems.
The bird is here, wings folded,
impassive
claws chiselled
into its rocky perch.
Another horizon looms.
Another green. New.
She will not tarry here
in a land of many ruined walls
of many abandoned lives
there is always another dwelling place.
I AM A MAGICIAN
Defiant against a darkening sky’s
elemental fury
bleeding the land of colour,
a dwelling
taunting the Wanderer
with its long-held secrets.
She is empowered
by a profound lightness,
a sense of letting go
of what?
Of shedding of past beliefs,
old views
dusty with misunderstanding?
The Wanderer sees and angry sky
threading light through old walls.
Rain clouds
suspend the horizon
by silvered wires;
stark emblems of power.
She confronts her fears,
defies the elements.
Searching for colour, she knows
there is magic here.
Her silent scream
touches the white horse,
caresses white walls of doubt.
You are safe.
A soft voice urges her to stop.
Come, rest awhile
in imagination.
elemental fury
bleeding the land of colour,
a dwelling
taunting the Wanderer
with its long-held secrets.
She is empowered
by a profound lightness,
a sense of letting go
of what?
Of shedding of past beliefs,
old views
dusty with misunderstanding?
The Wanderer sees and angry sky
threading light through old walls.
Rain clouds
suspend the horizon
by silvered wires;
stark emblems of power.
She confronts her fears,
defies the elements.
Searching for colour, she knows
there is magic here.
Her silent scream
touches the white horse,
caresses white walls of doubt.
You are safe.
A soft voice urges her to stop.
Come, rest awhile
in imagination.
I DREAM A DREAM
….. rest awhile
in the sanctuary of sleeping rocks.
Veiled shapes cuddling in quiet gesture
urge the Wanderer to rest, pause here
in mossy dampness.
She feels roughly woven fibres
melting into the woodland’s
ghostly memory.
She has been here before
when words were new and old ways forbidden.
Somewhere ancient voices bicker and bargain.
Her soul is wrapped in limestone lace
floating
flowing into mystical pathways
shrouded in silvered light
her bare feet dance without her consent
gliding above bracken and leaf litter
she dreams.
Blessed by soft stone hands
the wanderer is at peace
for now.
Music flows from stones,
a soft awakening to the land’s
beckoning her onwards.
in the sanctuary of sleeping rocks.
Veiled shapes cuddling in quiet gesture
urge the Wanderer to rest, pause here
in mossy dampness.
She feels roughly woven fibres
melting into the woodland’s
ghostly memory.
She has been here before
when words were new and old ways forbidden.
Somewhere ancient voices bicker and bargain.
Her soul is wrapped in limestone lace
floating
flowing into mystical pathways
shrouded in silvered light
her bare feet dance without her consent
gliding above bracken and leaf litter
she dreams.
Blessed by soft stone hands
the wanderer is at peace
for now.
Music flows from stones,
a soft awakening to the land’s
beckoning her onwards.
THE STONES SING THE SONGS OF THE ANCIENTS
Solid forms pierce the hillside.
Stoic and defiant, these stones
vibrate and dance
blessing the land
by their very being.
In re-found time
the wanderer meets
eager voices and new energy
inhabiting an emerging world
strangely familiar, yet
unknown.
She is enchanted by colour.
Ethereal contrast of
stone on mossy green
hemmed by gold.
This is a musical feast
replete with sky drama
revealing
one more scene
in the endlessness of
ancient stories.
Stoic and defiant, these stones
vibrate and dance
blessing the land
by their very being.
In re-found time
the wanderer meets
eager voices and new energy
inhabiting an emerging world
strangely familiar, yet
unknown.
She is enchanted by colour.
Ethereal contrast of
stone on mossy green
hemmed by gold.
This is a musical feast
replete with sky drama
revealing
one more scene
in the endlessness of
ancient stories.
WITH WISDOM SHE GROWS
The wanderer has been here before,
when skies were threatening
loss and confusion.
The bird is watching
silver-white against deep shadow.
Guardian of many paths,
it knows, waits
in complete stillness,
protecting the draped figure.
I know why she is draped black
And the language of her stick…
The wanderer sees a pale face vague within
its dark shroud, hears
ancient breath, a voice
gentle as eroded stones
edged with moss.
Wisdom hangs, visible
in the bird’s chiselled form.
Granite strength touches the earth,
connecting
changing.
Tell me … she whispers
Her path is mapped
by faded lines.
Stones will lead her
now
she knows.
when skies were threatening
loss and confusion.
The bird is watching
silver-white against deep shadow.
Guardian of many paths,
it knows, waits
in complete stillness,
protecting the draped figure.
I know why she is draped black
And the language of her stick…
The wanderer sees a pale face vague within
its dark shroud, hears
ancient breath, a voice
gentle as eroded stones
edged with moss.
Wisdom hangs, visible
in the bird’s chiselled form.
Granite strength touches the earth,
connecting
changing.
Tell me … she whispers
Her path is mapped
by faded lines.
Stones will lead her
now
she knows.
LANDING PLACE
… and there is intense sadness here.
Ancient metal watches the land with iron silence;
its welded strength
softened by a limestone bed,
offers the Wanderer a tragic shelter
with eroded memories of water:
floating
weightless
flying high on reckless waves
intent on safe harbour.
.. and now the weight,
the waiting
decades.
Her map shows only faded lines.
She rests in an unmarked space
knowing only that the rocks
are her sign,
her story-tellers.
Ancient metal watches the land with iron silence;
its welded strength
softened by a limestone bed,
offers the Wanderer a tragic shelter
with eroded memories of water:
floating
weightless
flying high on reckless waves
intent on safe harbour.
.. and now the weight,
the waiting
decades.
Her map shows only faded lines.
She rests in an unmarked space
knowing only that the rocks
are her sign,
her story-tellers.
HOMESICK
I know this place
The wanderer breathes in the light
air sweet with wild roses and gentle whisperings.
Shadows lurk.
She remembers
there are always dark places
between rocks, inside walls.
Memories haunt her like scratched film
intermittent
bleeding white
subsumed by light.
Sea-etched, and seduced
by a remember when
time turns to ragged blues,
glimpses of golden sand, shredded moonlight.
Going back is a studio of the imagination
swaddled in colour, with
borrowed robes.
Comfort for a journey
The wanderer breathes in the light
air sweet with wild roses and gentle whisperings.
Shadows lurk.
She remembers
there are always dark places
between rocks, inside walls.
Memories haunt her like scratched film
intermittent
bleeding white
subsumed by light.
Sea-etched, and seduced
by a remember when
time turns to ragged blues,
glimpses of golden sand, shredded moonlight.
Going back is a studio of the imagination
swaddled in colour, with
borrowed robes.
Comfort for a journey
…. and the finding
here
she sees home written on walls,
ancient texts,
blessings
boundless gratitude.
The wanderer strides towards
defined edges where windows
entice light
where the past
embraces her many presences.
Listen.
She hears voices
singing stories of home
far below her
or ahead, perhaps
near the distant castle.
Look.
So far away now
A vague and colourless,
path was steep then.
No longer beset by uncertainty
the wanderer comprehends a landscape
overflowing with borrowed magic.
Ancient knowledge
gathered from all
who passed this way
is here
within
now …
©Gillian Turner 2024
here
she sees home written on walls,
ancient texts,
blessings
boundless gratitude.
The wanderer strides towards
defined edges where windows
entice light
where the past
embraces her many presences.
Listen.
She hears voices
singing stories of home
far below her
or ahead, perhaps
near the distant castle.
Look.
So far away now
A vague and colourless,
path was steep then.
No longer beset by uncertainty
the wanderer comprehends a landscape
overflowing with borrowed magic.
Ancient knowledge
gathered from all
who passed this way
is here
within
now …
©Gillian Turner 2024
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