The warming brush of summer wind sighs over bare arm skin,

The sounds of blackbirds’ cheerful song is carried on the wind.

Shouts of children’s joyful play is heard clearly on the breeze,

The feel of mother’s gentle breath puts me at my ease.


A pattering of raindrops falls from the cloudy sky,

Gathering to form in puddles where on the earth they lie.

Running in streams and rivers to the sea they go,

The veins of our mother’s vital blood in which her blood does flow.


The glow of rosy firelight comes from the Smokey hearth,

Shining through the window it marks the traveller’ s path.

Dancing about the sacred blaze our ritual in the night,

Round and round and in and out until the sun god’s morning light.


The old oak stands firm planted deep in mother earth,

Supporting sustaining and feeding awaits the harvest’ s birth.

The mountains lie beneath the grass a backbone to the land,

As we go about our daily lives nestled in our mother’s hand.



Curious child

The little boy comes running to the man in the chair,

“Grampa,Grampa,what’s that picture by there?

All those men dressed in green, with very short hair?

Please tell me Grampa, tell me what, when and where?”


The man puts down his teacup and elbows on knees leans,

“Long ago that was, my sunshine, I was young, fit and keen.

When me and my friends, we all worked for the Queen,

The Sappers and Miners. All big, strong and supreme.


Strangers at first but soon became as brothers,

From all over they came, all sons of their mothers.

A unique group of blokes, like none any or others,

The Apple of the eye and pride of their fathers.”


The little boy looks up “But now you’re much older,

Your hair is all grey and your hands are so colder.”

“And a bit wiser, my boy, but not so much bolder,

But in my heart I’m still twenty and always a soldier!”


Rich 2016




Was down at the Wessex we were DAGDAing in,

When i first met this bloke with a mischievious grin,

Tall and lanky and long haired and thin,

I could see at a glance, there’s a good soul in that skin.


Some beers were supped and we enjoyed a smoke,

A ciggie for me and something else for this bloke,

An intro, a hug and a laugh and a joke,

More people like this and for the world there’s some hope.


We met up again at Wickedywitch camp,

As funny as always, the lovable scamp,

The weather was nasty, all soggy and damp,

The marquee blew down for lack of a clamp!


He bought a cool top, those magikal sleeves,

The wind, it was blowing the grass and the leaves,

Rik’s not with us today, i still can’t believe,

One big family, we miss him, we the bereaved.


rest well in the summerland my friend. blessed be.


A faint taste of woodsmoke travels lightly on the breeze,

The sounds of ritual chanting weakens them at the knees.

What is this thing we are seeing? Oh tell us,, inform us please!

What are the works a’doing that causes our blood to freeze?


Two thousand years of hatred comes from the “mother” church,

Millenia of persecution sprang forth from THAT birth,

Inquisitions and fear that tried to ban us from this earth,

And all of it came to nothing, the burnings were of no worth.


Saint Patrick went to Ireland to drive the snakes all out,

He’s the one, if you ask me, who should have had a clout!

“Convert the snakes to christians!” was his battlecry and shout,

And he did his task with alacrity, of this there is no doubt.


And all that time and all the hunting, some pagans, they did remain,

Quietly, behind closed doors, celebrated many sabbats of Samhain,

And kept the knowledge and the lore of our old gods locked safe in their brains,

And passed it on through bardic tale, for the youngsters in craft, to train.


And today we gather here, in this circle, safe and sound,

Protected by the watchers And Lord Arawn’s three greyhounds,

Some of those folk still want of us our beating fleshy pound,

But “No more” says I “Never again, shall we hide under the ground!”


An old man silently waits and listens and stands,

In chill autumn wind and freezing cold rain.

The cold it has nipped at and reddened his hands,

His eyes are red too, with memories of pain.


He walks along quietly, among flowers of red,

A faded , moth-eaten old beret sits proud on his head.

The poppies, a memorial to young men long dead,

In France they now lie, mother earth is their bed.


His cap badge is shining and medals are too,

It took him no time to polish his shoes.

The crowds look on in awe, they don’t have a clue,

What this man and his comrades, for the country they do.


He lifts up his face and looks at the sky,

Tears run down as the bugle soars high.

“Why my mates, oh goddess, why did they die?”

“Why are they dead and gone and i’m still alive?”



A white globe, bright shining,

Through wind swift driven clouds.

I stand in quiet contemplation,

No needs for shouting or crowds.


Athames in the moonlight,

Crystals glistening bright.

Robed and cloaked and hooded,

In glades of trees all wooded.


All the witches in a coven,

One more there is, than a dozen.

The chants they sing, the words they speak,

The wind blown trees do sway and creak.


A circle is cast, the watchers are called,

The outside world, it’s entry is stalled.

The ritual complete, all words have been spoken,

May the circle be open but never unbroken!


In a tank crew, troop or field section,

Using split hairpin shelter or hesco bastion.

We build and work hard, no sign of hesitation,

All this is done for your protection.


Coming home from the tours,

No welcoming crowds or happy cheers.

“See you in the naafi or round at yours?”

Crash on the sofa and have a few beers.


As time passes the nightmares, they start,

“Stop being daft, you silly old fart!”

Pick up a paintbrush, relax with some art,

Doesn’t quite work and the two of you part.


Beer and fags and sitting in the rain,

Anything to try to dull the pain.

Staring at tracks at a railway station,

To put an end to the total confusion


The drinking and fighting and incarceration,

Sitting, monged out in front of television.

More beer and drugs, seeking total oblivion,

“Lock him up, the twat! Throw him in prison!”


We did the job for mine and your nation,

The PTSD puts a block on the old cogitation.

Screwed up, fucked up, a mess of frustration’

Medicated, are we, for your protection!