Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 2)

~ Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 2) ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


When then a subtle single shift,

A lifting of the gloom,

Twas if sunlight reappeared, or

Darkness left some room.


I wasn’t sure as I gazed,

Through haze to where he’d stood,

But the hatted scarecrow,

Had left the darkly wood.


In his stead a woman knelt,

Knelt weeping on the floor.

She paused to pray but briefly,

Before shedding tears some more.


Beside a graveside softly sighing,

In dappled shade of Yews,

Here her hands busied tidying,

Dying flowers, blackened blooms.


Weathered headstone granite grim,

Chiselled, grizzled, letters dim,

To one unknown whose body lay,

Six-foot deep in soils of grey.


With tender touch thin fingers traced,

Soft lips mouthed a name,

“Nevermore,” she quietly said,

“Come back to me again.”


Spilling tears she looked at me,

“I am the Nightingale,” said she,

“Whose love lies lost beneath the sea,”

“Whose heart is lost to melancholy.”


“Twas early morn at crack of dawn,”

“When three stole him away,”

“Beat, bound, hung him high,”

“Until first light next day.”


“Then cut down, spliced into four,”

“Scattered across the forest floor,”

“But not his heart, for that was locked,”

“Inside a sunken metal box.”


When then she showed her palm to me,

Where-in there lay a tarnished key,

Twas old and gold and radiant,

Fashioned most beautifully.


“For thee,” said she slowly rising,

“So as to go where I cannot be:”

“Unlock the box beneath the sea,”

“Set-free his heart,” said she.


Her words faded upon a breeze,

Short, sudden, moving quickly,

One moment there, the next she’d gone –

But for the echo of a Nightingale’s song.


I paused to ponder, to reflect upon,

All she said, all that happened.

What had I witnessed? What did I see?

Everything was complete mystery!


I wondered why she’d come to me,

How I’d help her destiny.

“And what of the box found under the sea?”

“Where Nevermore’s heart is bound?”


I felt confused but yet quite certain,

I’d find more beyond this forest curtain: or else,

Why did I have eyes to see?

Why else reveal this mystery?


Someway ahead a pathway led,

Eased down through forest trees,

I turned towards it with intention,

Of moving-on from this location.


I took long strides in that direction,

When something glinting caused distraction,

And there before me on the floor,

A key of gold to free Nevermore.


Said key of gold, ornate and old,

Was formed so perfectly,

A polished blade, toothed, well-made,

Its bow inlaid with ivory.


With key in hand and curiosity,

Pushing, pulling, impelling me,

I headed down the phantom track,

Decision made, no turning back.


~ Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 1) precedes this post. Part 3 to follow shortly ~ 


Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 1)

~ Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 1) ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Exiting a bypass, junction 33,

Along a dusty country road,

My strides carried me; further away,

From motorised cacophony.


I dallied, I dawdled,

I lingered here and there,

I listened to the warble,

Of warblers everywhere.


Clacking crows sat in rows,

Gibbering with gabbling gulls,

Yabber, yammer, jibber-jabber

 From tops of telegraph-poles.


I flowed along my road

Alongside field and fold,

Up and over hill crests,

Galumphing over wold.


Until a sty caught my eye,

Wooden, worn, well used,

Over which I tumbled,

To be left a little bruised.


Undeterred I wandered on,

But hadn’t trodden far,

When by a hidden siding,

I found a scarecrow hiding.


A mysterious chap grimacing wide,

Top-hat tilted to one side: but,

An ill-favoured look upon his face,

Had me quicken my rambling pace.


Very soon I became aware,

I was walking a different track,

And yet when I looked behind me,

There was no way back!


Bracken blocked my brambling path,

Hedgerows had grown taller,

I couldn’t see above or beyond,

Twas if I’d grown much smaller


Troubled, confused, puzzled, bemused,

Shivers ran up ‘n’ down my spine,

My enjoyable ramble, my jolly jaunt,

Twas no longer fine!


Whispered words from close behind,

Spun me quickly on my heels,

What stood there before my eyes,

Made me gasp before I reeled.


The grimacing scarecrow, hessian hooded,

Wooded, dressed in rags;

His topper lent an evil bent,

To robes made from body bags.


But its eyes! No longer cross-stitching,

Were black, bleak, bewitching!

O! How they stared at me!

Eyes full of pain, sadness, misery.


I took a big step backwards,

Pressed tight against Blackberry,

But thorns and barbs and piercing things,

Merely punctured or scratched at me.


Curling a twiggy digit, without fabric on it,

The Scarecrow begged me follow,

“Come, come,” it whispered pleading,

Leading a path towards a hollow.


At first unsure, in fact uncertain,

I stayed pinned to bramble’s curtain,

Not knowing what to do: but yet, curious

To know, where the scarecrow would go.


The Scarer, for that’s what it was,

Shuffled back into view,

“Come, come,” it implored again,

“You must come-on through.”


Such was the pain in saddened eyes,

I left the thorn-bush grasping,

And stumbled-on where it had gone,

Breathing hard, almost gasping.


The hollow, a bowl within a copse,

Twas dark, dappled, and eerie,

Seven trees with branches chopped,

Shielded light, made it dreary.


At its centre the gallybagger stood,

Balanced deftly on fallen wood,

As I drew near, it cupped each ear,

Put a fingertip to its lip.


A sudden shift, a quickening breeze,

Screams and shouts between tall trees,

Cries for help, “No! No! Please!”

“Dear God! Won’t you save me!”


Vaporous wisps along our path,

Words I heard, spoken with wrath,

When then emerged three hooded men,

Dragging someone behind them.


Cloaked were they in blackened grey,

Moving with menace, coming our way,

I had no time to step away –

When then they were upon me!


But not upon me, for they weren’t there!

Merely ghosts, phantoms, dense dank air,

Hauling a man with dark brown hair,

Into the hollow, their deathly lair.


Thrown to ground, badly beaten,

Bound, gagged, to make him quieten,

Whilst one swung rope over a bough,

“Let’s see if god, saves you now!”


Dragged to his feet, stripped bare to skin,

Three set about hanging him:

Symbols painted upon his chest,

Satan’s number carved in his flesh.


The noose loose about his neck,

Lifted him from the deck,

Higher, higher, higher he rose,

Body jerking from head to toes.


~ Copse ‘n’ Corpse (Part 2) to follow shortly ~ 


Medley (Part 1)

~ Purple Bow and Golf-Tees ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Whilst out for a walk, circumnavigating a lake,

Upon a grassy-knoll near a narrow intake,

Golf-pegs or tees teased pleasing my eye: and,

Whilst I neither a golfer, or have intention to be,

Thought them left there especially for me.

5 in all, bright white and wooden: put in a line,

Shiny and new, I knew what to do –

Brought them home and made them mine.


When then another curiosity caught my attention,

No doubt a remnant of New Year: a purple bow

Emblazoned with stars I found near a weir.

I wondered how it got there: how it might have travelled,

By land or lake or sea? But of course this bow of mystery,

Retained its hidden history – I’ll never have clarity

In how this bow came to be, but yet, it matters not,

Wizards believe in destiny. This purple bow was fated me.


But what was I to do with both pegs and bow?

I didn’t have a clue. So I waited by the blue

Knowing help would come along: whereupon a crow,

Dark as ebony, set down next to me, and,

Offered his advice. How nice I thought he should care,

So I sat there listening, as with feathers glistening, he spoke.

“Dewin,” he croaked, “wear the Bow, set-up 5-tees,”

“Then striking double-eagles, pen a medley.”


~ Shooting-Star ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Mid-Winter Moon, veiled occluded,

Beech and Birch, Hawthorn precluded,

Garden housed, fenced-in secluded,

There he sat alone and brooded.


High above, night’s deep blackening,

Softened by morning’s flamed awakening,

A new day stirred, emerged still yawning,

Rising dawning in pleated skies.


Upon a wall neither tall nor small,

At one end of a paved patio,

A quiet place, a serene space,

Where few folk chose to go.


Here he sat musing this and that,

Whilst a cat curled at his feet,

Gazed wide-eyed in wonderment,

At Heavens starry firmament.


As jet was she, dark as mystery:

Unsolved, timeless, never-ending,

She mewled, purred, pawed at him,

“Look up,” she said, “see everything.”


As if he’d heard, or following her gaze

Towards the welkin, where betwixt haze,

A shooting-star flaming bright,

Lit white the embers of dying night.


He sighed with delight at such a sight,

Watched as it ignited the Dawn,

First crack of light splitting night,

First breath of a new day born.


“One wish is yours,” she softly purred,

“How might your heart be gently stirred?”

“What flames your fire with desire?”

“What dreams do you keep in sleep?”


“Be mindful my Love, consider well,”

“The fated Prince in a tale told, whose soul”

“Was sold beholding gold, but whose heart”

“Found gloom in a gilded tomb.”


Like liquid night the canny cat,

Moved to sit where he were sat,

Upon his lap so he could see,

Into her eyes gazing up at he.


Wider, wider, wider still, until

With pupils dilated and he fixated,

Lulled by her felidae will, he fell

Into the well of her spell.


As if in a dream freely floating,

Soaring celestial skies: but yet,

Each star burning with untold yearning,

Each star a unique surprise.


Fears and fires, forgotten desires,

His mind in flux, in commotion.

“Wish,” she said, “let your heart be led,”

“To its rightful destination.”


“Think it through, you know what to do,”

“You know what inspires you.”

“Don’t wait or linger, don’t dwell or delay,”

“Make your choice upon this day.”


She mewled, pawed, implored him choose,

“Be quick my Love, before you lose,”

“All sense of feeling to wistful dreaming,”

 “Be quick my Love and choose.”


One star he saw burnt o so bright,

A beacon in his line of sight:

Called-out his name again, again,

As racing he crossed the astral plain.


She, bright star, watched him fly,

Hasten to Her across morning’s sky: She,

Risen and showing, blushed knowing,

As only a Rose glowing knew why.


The stargazing cat uncurled from his lap,

Leaving him alone to brood.

He excited, inspired, delighted,

Alighted the wall in brighter mood.


~ Around ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


These paths I’ll walk in the fullness of time,

Flow on their way like flowing fine wine,

Meandering beside the lakeside shore,

To places unknown where I couldn’t be sure,

Or more uncertain of what will be found.

These pathways leading around-and-around,

Bore with certainty of what will be found,

In places known where I should be sure,

Meandering beside the lakeside shore,

Flow on their way like flowing fine wine,

 These paths I’ve walked in the roundness of rhyme.


~ Ripples ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Where do ripples go having come ashore,

When those ripples are ripples no more?

Should you know then please do say,

I’ve been here watching ripples all day,

And I’m still unsure of where ripples go,

When ripples flow on their way.


~ Glimpsed ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Flash and flare between shrubbery,

Fluorescent apparel appeals to me,

As straining hard against the breeze,

Joggers glimpsed betwixt tall trees.


They pass me by gasp ‘hello,’

Drenched in sweat as they flow,

As they go I watch them glow,

In spandex threads of bright yellow.


Pit-Stop (Part 3)

An abridged poem presented in three parts. Part two precedes this post.


~ Pit-Stop (Part 3) ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


“Stories migrate,” the Wizard said,

“They set sail for foreign climes,”

 “Texts and tales both travel trails,”

“Twas their way in ancient times.”


“Bought and sold as gifts or traded,”

“Words of worth were venerated!”

“A Poet’s status elevated: their poetry”

“Once weighted against gold.”


“A journey through a distant land,”

“Landed that poem in your hand,”

“Twas given me by a mystical man,”

“Whose staff entwined two dragons.”


“Said he to me: a time will come,”

“Long after I’m dead, departed, gone,”

“One will arrive to scribe a song,”

“Be sure to pass this ending on.”


“Now if you please,” the Wizard said,

“Pause a moment to get this read,”

“Then onwards again with ink and pen,”

“Scrivener! Scribe-on to the end!”


The hapless Knight held deep below,

Confronted by his blackened soul,

Strained in pain, wept in shadow,

Knowing he’d nowhere to go.


He hung and withered, shaking, quivered,

Poured his heart out to the dark,

For a life of sin he’d lost everything,

Forever scarred by the Devil’s mark.


His woe and wail was to no avail,

In Hell no-one hears you scream,

All alone was he for eternity,

There’d be no redemption for him.


Here he’d hang relentlessly dying,

Endlessly trying to set himself free,

But try as he might there’d be no light,

No escaping the darkness for he.


Years went-by yet time stood still,

Only Death passed-by his fetid cell:

Dragging the damned, showcasing the man,

His prize, the Knight who fell.


On one such pass from the mass,

A dark shadow slithered his way,

Moving low and fast til at last,

Rising it began to sway.


Two eyes stared right through him,

A tongue extended licked his skin,

Whatever it was hissed at him,

Came closer still then hissed again.


It circled around, moved up and down,

As if getting the measure of him,

The Knight tried to hide, closed his eyes,

Hoping this thing was a dream.


But it was there, continuing to stare,

Lips pulled back to bite,

The hapless Knight, terrified with fright,

Hung like bait in the Devil’s lair.


“I am the Spirit,” the beast declared,

“Of a child whose mother was slain,”

“I am his fury, and his Love,”

“His passion and his pain.”


“Through space and time, words in rhyme,”

“In legend and in fable,”

“I’ve searched the world looking for you,”

“Now find you in the Devil’s stable.”


“Where here you hang withered and wasted,”

“Your soul in pieces, annihilated,”

“Your heart bled dry, waiting to die,”

“Death waiting to be satiated.”


“Above this ground, this pit of despair,”

“Stands a man, your son and heir,”

“Grown tall and strong, he lived on,”

“After slaughter, you left him there.”


“What say you now as close to dying,”

“Begging each day, waking crying,”

“For pain to end, for heartache to cease,”

“To depart this world, to go in peace?”


“What would you give for just one chance,”

“To have one glimpse, one look, one glance,”

“To see a Prince become a King.”

“What would you give to end suffering?”


The decrepit Knight whose endless plight,

Had blighted all his years,

“My life,” he said, “for my soul is dead,”

“Pray God, help me with my tears.”


The beast struck with lightening speed,

Ended life for a Knight in need,

Freed his spirit, laid it to rest,

In the beating heart of a Kingly breast.


With flourish Scribe dotted the line,

Set the parchments in the spline, and,

Turned to the Wizard, who all this time,

Was never there to check his rhyme.


~ The End ~


Pit-Stop (Part 2)

An abridged poem presented in three parts. Part one precedes this post.


~ Pit-Stop (Part 2) ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Parchment paused upon the turn,

Tallow tapers slowly burnt,

Back to Hell the Scribe returned,

Spurned on by Wizard’s words.


Jagged, ragged, craggy rock,

Slit and sliced, did not stop:

Nor hands that grasped, rasped and raked,

Beneath his feet, all Hell quaked.


Unshackled was he whilst led away,

Through tightly twisting passageways,

Deeper and deeper, deeper still,

Into the very bowels of Hell.


Consumed by darkness, death, decay,

The fetid stench of those that lay,

In slime and filth, in disarray,

Fly-ridden maggots rotting away.


Against the wall, chained and bound,

Hung at height above the ground,

With eyes closed he made no sound,

For heinous things skulked all around.


Shadows left, shade slinked away,

Alone was he, amidst smoky grey:

Ashen faced, his heart dismayed,

For here he’d be for eternal days.


Those first hours, as terror reigned,

Within dull glow of pyric flame,

His body weak, his heart pained,

His head hung low in utter shame.


Over and over and over again,

Deep in the dark of Hell’s domain,

His thoughts persisted, unrelenting, insisted,

Returned to the day he were slain.


But not the battle in which he fell,

His fall from favour far earlier still:

When mindless murder overwhelmed free-will,

He took a life, made his first kill…


As death he came that fated night,

Intent to slay, dispatch and smite.

His razor-edge, flashed with might,

He showed no pity to her plight,


Drunk with fury, blinded by pain,

Red-mist rising, Hell’s fire flamed:

Burning, burning, burning again,

Madness took hold, he went insane.


With babe in arms, she’d try to flee,

Across the moorland to safety,

 Once his lover, a wife to be,

Butchered for her infidelity.


She’d begged, pleaded, implored, entreated,

She’d thrown herself at his feet,

But her Knight, once white, shining bright,

Showed no mercy for her deceit.


Blinded by rage and jealousy,

He struck down hard with savagery,

Silenced her prayers, her piercing screams,

Ended her life, her hopes, her dreams.


There he left her, lying where slain,

 Heaped on the floor, whilst driving rain,

Washed away his sinful shame,

But not the stain in his heart.


Time flowed-by, he ventured on,

Without regret for his past action,

But the sullied seed, a toxic weed,

Grew bleeding in his soul.


Day-by-day, night-by-night,

The poisonous plant bound him tight,

Like a cancer stung, clinging on,

Filled his mind with baneful venom.


To weak to fight, to deny the blight,

Or defy its dastardly rage,

He did its bidding, continued killing,

Wielding its wicked blade.


Until that day, cut down in war,

Bleeding to death upon the floor,

Whilst Ravens gathered overhead,

Urgent to feed on slaughtered dead.


Scribe stopped writing, halted his pen,

The text incomplete, it had no end,

Turned to his mentor, wanting advice,

An unfinished story wouldn’t suffice.


The Wizard watched with knowing eyes,

Rose from his seat, went to the Scribe,

Passed him parchment, slipped from the text,

“The ending,” he said, “it’s what comes next.”


With quill at rest upon his desk,

Scribe reached for the missing pages,

Cast his eye over decolorized words,

Faded by time and Ages.


To his surprise he quickly surmised,

The writing was in another hand,

“The text has travelled,” the Wizard said,

“Denouement from a different land.”


~ End of Part 2 – Part 3 to follow shortly ~


Pit-Stop (Part 1)

An abridged poem presented in three parts. The second instalment to follow shortly…


~ Pit-Stop (Part 1) ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


One small room atop a castle tower,

Deep in the keep of midnight’s hour,

A scribe sat writing, hard at labour,

Eager to please his revered mentor.


Glistered soft glow, candlelight glittered,

Feather-tipped quill, in motion flickered,

 Each word transcribed, carefully considered,

Subject to checking by the artful Wizard.


His endeavour this night, an ancient text,

A labyrinth of strangeness, confused, perplexed,

His mind had strived, reached and flexed: but yet,

Bewildered was he, unnaturally vexed.


The dark tale told of a Knight badly bold,

A murderous man of wicked intent,

Who cut-down in war, finally saw,

His diabolical life was spent.


In desperation he offered supplication,

Prayed to an unknown force,

A plea for his life: for continuation,

In return he vowed remorse.


And so it was he was spared: but yet,

A cripple he’d always remain:

Amputated limbs reminding him,

Of his reign dealing death and pain.


Upon the day he hobbled away,

He laid-down his bloodied sword,

Unable to fight, he set-out that night,

Seeking the Light of the Lord.


But bitter for his loss, twisted in mind,

Within himself he couldn’t find: neither

Fealty or obedience, devotion or allegiance,

Nor adherence to troth or his oath.


For years in penitence, contemplating sin,

Shamed by trespass he held within:

Inside his heart, inside his skin,

Waiting for Heaven to let him in.


When then one day in utter despair,

 No closer to God, he thought not there,

With heart and soul in disarray,

He heard a voice softly say…


“Within the heart of everyman, there lies a hapless song,

Pain and grief and suffering, when choices made were wrong.

But should you ever feel, those times still linger on,

I know a place, a special space, where Darkness moves you on.”


The dishonoured Knight, whose fall from Grace,

Sped him onwards, quickened his pace,

Lulled by the voice inside his head,

To ends of the world, was he blindly lead.


To a bore in the floor, descending down,

Steep to a valley, deep underground,

To a perilous path betwixt hot flame:

Unbeknownst passage to perdition and pain.


Hands that pushed, propelled him on,

All sense of reason, flown had gone,

His heart disowned, his soul undone,

Quickening his stride through Hell’s canyon.


Stumbling towards dark doors ahead,

Wet with blood, soaked crimson red,

Whilst all about, screams and shouts,

Moans of the groaning dead.


In his state, he didn’t hesitate,

Oblivious to all but his pain:

Twas not a sin to keep walking –

So his pace quickened again.


Rising upon high, obscuring blue sky,

Fire raged atop valley’s dark crest: but yet,

With madness was he, so onwards pressed,

Eyes blind to fate: to whatever came next.


By Hell’s arching gate, he turned to gaze,

Upon barren lands, smoke-filled haze,

Last sight of life: this endless strife,

 Then into Hell’s infernal maze.


Where there laid bare, judgement passed,

His wicked ways revealed at last,

Within the glare of Satan’s stare,

Purgatory was offered him.


At such a sight, the hapless Knight

Knew at last his remorseless plight,

As shadows gathered to bind him tight,

When then he reached for his sword to fight.


But alas! His weapon long cast away,

As was his vow that sorrowful day:

His promise to God as dying he lay,

Fearful of darkness, underworld decay.


Silent the room as Scribe paused his read,

Turned to the wizard, his eyes did plead,

“Why forsaken?” He asked at last,

“Why not forgiven for his wicked past?”


His mentor smiled, as all Wizard’s do,

“Don’t fret my lad, don’t dwell or stew,”

“Nor let this moment unsettle you -“

“This Knight’s redemption is far from through.”


~ End of Part 1 – Part 2 to follow shortly ~


~ Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Sunrise ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


We’d sat together for an hour or more,

In silence mostly upon the floor,

Night slipped away, a new day begun,

Sunrise shimmered upon the horizon


Amongst ancient stones, upon our hill,

Whispered voices lingered still,

Great Sages from Ages distant, gone,

Urged the Traveller to journey-on.


They gathered in numbers to sit and talk,

To give advice to those who’d walk: to those

Who pursue dreams and not turn tail,

Or deviate their path on destiny’s trail.


Hermes and I had met once before,

On the shores of a far away land,

That day I’ll recall for evermore,

For he pressed a gift in my hand.


“A feather for whenever you fall,”

“For when shadow is standing tall,”

“When shade stays for endless days,”

“It’ll play the sweetest music of all.”


Years had passed, I’d not heard from he,

But now sat in his company: with nature

Orchestrating her symphony,

Hermes briefly spoke to me.


“It makes no difference what books are read,”

“All paths lead to the Sun,” he said,

“Follow your heart, take care where you tread,”

“All you’ll need is in your head.”


“Don’t stop to linger, or pause to delay,”

“Your road is chosen, it is your Way:”

“Paths that’ll carry you far away –

 “To snow-peaks above clouds of grey,”


“There you’ll find peace and harmony,”

“Accompanied by Leopards of yore,”

“From crests kissed by morning light,”

“You’ll lift to rise and soar.”


“One day soon we’ll meet again,*

“In a place beyond this dimension,”

“Yet it’ll not be I who first comes to you,”

“But the Great Bird of Duration.”


“Before you go, I’ve a gift for you,”

“New wings for your wizard’s cap,”

“Now be on your Way upon this day:”

“Without stopping to ever look back.”


~ Photography/Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Blood-Stone ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


The Way was open, all systems go,

Accelerating hard he hit the flow,

Light speed imminent, wings aglow,

Mercury in motion, quicksilver maestro.


Faster, faster, the Spacefaring Master

Sped outpacing shooting stars,

Quicker, quicker, until just a flicker:

A silver-streak en route for Mars.


He thundered passed the distant past,

Dashed through the annals of Time,

At lightening speed, still moving fast,

Mercury began to climb.


Rising as a rocket on a curving ascent,

Into a worm-hole he quickly went,

 Darted to its end, banked hard right:

Mars dead-ahead in his line of sight.


Planet Red in her starry bed,

Flush with the blush of a Rose:

Still tripped the Light, her devoted flight,

Spinning on her axial toes.


Mercury slowed to recompose,

To transform his molecular self,

When pressed from light into labyrinthine,

Set-down on a ruby-red shelf.


Months had passed since he were here last,

But Mars hadn’t changed at all,

She still shone, like a Rose-crystal sun,

As if in-Love for the very first time.


He’d travelled here to refuel the Wand:

This planet of Passion and Fire:

Where from her core he would draw,

Power to express God’s Desire.


You see, Mars is Her Fiery Guardian,

God’s Keeper of Scared Stone,

Tis why she’s red – or so it’s said,

For she bleeds for God’s Holy throne.


Mercury eased a smile on his dial:

It’d be a while ’til he came again,

Then with words unheard, he hovered his Wand,

Whispered a prayer for her pain.


A single stone of blood-red shade,

Arose from deep within her ground,

Found its way into his Wand,

When then he left without a sound.


~ Photography/Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Wish-List ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Nobody knew where his wish-list flew,

As it rose upon Flame and Fire: but,

Leaving his room, it ascended the flume,

Upon Wings of Love and Desire.


A way away where starlight played,

The Supreme Alchemist scryed his wish,

With effortless ease She set-out to please,

Distilled Her will with great flourish.


From High Shelves above She selected a book,

Thumbed through parchment, took a look,

“Ah yes,” She mused, in anticipation,

“My old recipe for rapid Transmutation.”


She gathered a scatter of Saturnalia matter,

Added Sulphur, Salt and Mercury,

A little Tin was drizzled in:

“Elementus for the hypothalamus,” said She.


“One dropper of Copper, one Silver sliver,”

“Magnetised Iron to guide his river,”

“A pinch of Palladium to fill his fissure,”

“Spools of Silk binding all together.”


Then back to the page returned the Sage,

Checking everything was crafted and done,

“Of course!” Said She most excitedly,

“Dew from the Light of Three Suns!”


In no time at all, shaked and baked,

Interstellar matter cooled and shaped,

She called the Messenger, Winged Mercury,

“Would you mind?” She asked, “special delivery.”


Twas Christmas morn, a new day dawned,

And there beneath the tree,

A gold-parcel rested: in evergreen nested,

Tagged, “With Love from Me to thee.”


~ Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Fragaria Rosaceae

~ Fragaria Rosaceae ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


A Rose from afar lulled his heart,

Lifted his soul from ocean’s blue,

Warmed by Fire enflaming his hearth,

Upon wings of Love he flew.


His journey of ten-thousand miles,

Over land and sea, untamed wilds,

He never stopping nor idly flocking,

Travelled at ease independently.


When then one day at wuthering height,

Tumultuous storms curtailed his flight,

Unable to see, no line-of-sight,

Forced to land overnight.


Beneath broad boughs of Oaken Trees,

With night’s dark veil O so deep,

Warm and dry amidst windswept leaves,

Lay down his head as if to sleep.


Slow to slumber whilst raging thunder

Hammered-on ’til dawn,

He found small space, a special place,

Vision of a new day born…


Airborne once more in dusted skies,

Joyous in flight, elemental highs,

Where he and air were harmonized,

All thoughts of Love romanticized.


Upon Earth below, his beloved globe,

Shadow lifted as light shifted,

Starlight faded away: a new day begun,

An emergent sun, rising-on the horizon.


When with gentle tease a softly breeze,

Blew quivering his wing-tip feathers,

Despite his dreaming, intuited deep feeling,

 He turned freewheeling towards the Sun.


Blinded at first by Light so bright,

Smarting eyes could not see,

But still he flew into the hue,

On a journey of discovery.


Until in time through salty haze,

An island appeared before his gaze,

Shimmering green, like none ever seen,

This mystical skerry born from dream.


Two towering summits, snow-capped peaks,

Rolling hills with graceful sweeps,

To an open bay where waves at play

Found their way, foaming upon the shore.


Where there harboured a majestic sight,

Fragaria Rosaceae of the greatest might,

Winged was She dressed crimson red,

Flowering locks green upon Her head.


From either side two feathered beasts,

In silence stood with golden beaks,

Guarded Her being: watchmen like priests,

Alert to all who’d falsely seek.


Beyond Her crown, a hill-top crest,

A Rosy-Cross stood still at rest,

Shone-out its Light with eternal zest,

Brightly Blessed Her isle with Love.


To Her open-mouth a pathway led,

Rising from Her ocean bed,

 “Ego Rosa tua,” She softly said,

Shedding all dread from his heart.


~ Artwork/Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


~ Fragaria is a genus of flowering plants in the Rose family, Rosaceae, commonly known as the Strawberry for their edible fruits ~

~ In Medieval Christian art and folklore, the Strawberry symbolizes spiritual purity, decency, righteousness, and perfect nobility of spirit. It is also an emblem of Venus, the Goddess of Love, because of its heart shape and red colour,  ~


On Meeting a Herm

~ On Meeting a Herm ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


For more than an hour traipsing flagging-stones,

Grieving paths edged with grass meandering graving rows,

When in the haunt of unhappiness, mourning’s woeful Crows,

I sensed an air, something there, someone this way flowed.


I turned to stare but no-one there, I was quite alone,

A copse of trees, windless breeze, chiselled granite-stone.

So feet beat fleeting time in this graveyard far from home,

Beneath warm Sun I paused just once, then carried on.


When then again came that distant sound,

A whisper found my ear,

Speaking loud and clear from somewhere close by.

“Dewin Nefol,” it softly said, “do you want to fly?”


Somewhat perturbed by what I heard, but yet,

Feeling rather giddy – twas if that voice beside of me,

Called from dense shrubbery. I stooped to see, and,

Betwixt tall trees, made a surprising discovery.


Between bramble and bracken, upon a stanchion,

Stood a Herm proud and firm; neither aged nor weather worn,

Ivy clung, nettles stung, barbs wielded my skin, as I,

Parted foliage stepped slowly further in.


This crafted thing with symbol and wings,

Twas an oddity to my eye: spied only on book pages,

Or in ancient texts from forgotten ages:

Myths and Legends, tales of Great Sages.


Carved emerald green, this Herm was shining,

Eyes that seemed to stare,

 He was tucked away out of light-of-day,

In dusted shade cast ashen grey.


“Dewin,” he said, “I’ve waited so long,”

“For you to hear my unspoken song,”

“But here you are at last I see -“

“Why did you wait to come to me?”


What could I say? What good would it do?

To argue my case, to deny, or dispute,

“Hmm,” he mused as if he already knew,

“Only Love in God is quintessentially true.”


“But I see you’ve tried, given your best,”

“Fledged new feathers to leave the nest,”

“And so by way of small reward,”

“I’ll help you to move forward.”


“You’ve earned those wings upon your back,”

“Arrived at last despite the flak,”

“Dewin,” he said, “there’s no backtrack,”

“Only memories to pen in your almanac.”


“And so to flight and to flying high,”

“Above the Earth in cloudless skies,”

“Closer to stars, to Venus above: ’tis She,”

“Who is your sempiternal Love.”


“Close your eyes, let your mind expand,”

“Feel yourself lift from this land,”

“Let no fear of death or darkness arrest,”

“Merge with Mind, who knows what’s best.”


“Let your thoughts flow into wilderness,”

“Upon the Great Curve of Consciousness,”

“Let them soar upon wings without hesitation,”

“Carried by the Great Bird of Duration.”


“Rise without doubt or uncertainty,”

“To a place of Peace and Serenity,”

“For there you’ll find most certainly,”

“The Circle of All Eternity.”


~ Photography/Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~




~ Incubate ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


I was led by a Thrice-lived Pegod,

To the temple of the Living God,

Laid within a sarcophagus: my Soul,

Awaiting its call to consciousness.


When gestated, incubated, reborn again,

Rising above suffering, fear and pain: when then,

Nurtured to fruition: upon wings I’ll fly,

Guided by an Angel’s ever Loving eye.


~ Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


A Pleasing Post

~ A Pleasing Post ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


A weary traveller returning home,

With sense of understanding,

Stripped of flesh, laid bare to bone,

Set-down upon her landing.


His bones had roamed infinite miles,

Wings relentless in their flutter,

Through time and space he’d made haste,

Seeking words for all matter.


 He carried no treasure as I could see,

Arrived alone, no company: but yet,

Burning within the heart of he,

Shone bright the Light of Mystery.


I watched him step, slowly rise,

Upon her offered hand,

From wrists of lace her sweet embrace:

An elemental place to land.


Beyond her hand a flower bloomed,

Six petals of flaming red,

Whilst at her core a void bore,

Led-away to who knows where.


He stood before her blue-eyed stare,

On threshold of one final stair,

Where there Ningizzida appeared to he:

Sumerian Lord of the Good Tree.


As if then conjured by wizardry,

Butterflies flashed-by their livery,

Danced in kaleidoscopic symphony,

 Tempting with their Alchemy.


“Within your heart and to your eyes,”

“You already know who am I,”

“This form I take, it is a guise,”

“For I’m Trismegistus in disguise.”


“I meet you now amongst fern and heather,”

“Here solely to determine whether:”

“Balancing your Soul against one feather,”

“Is measure of your Heart.”


“I’m seeking-out an apprentice Scribe,”

“An Amanuensis with soft-touch.”

“A man who can most artfully,”

“Translate from double-dutch.”


“A friend of mine whose doing fine,”

“Made mention to head this way,”

“He said he knew a man with rhyme,”

“Who’d be returning home this day.”


“So here I am as are you,”

“Poised above a pool of blue: but this,”

“Is no ordinary interview,”

“But occasion to review your heart.”


“You see I am a Sage of ancient age,”

“Thrice lived but turning grey.”

“Soon my page upon Earth’s stage,”

“Will turn and fade away.”


“Before that day I’m obliged to seek,”

“One whose heart is mild and meek,”

“One who’ll walk the Emerald Way,”

“Shine-it on until last day.”


“These steps you’ve taken as if ascending:”

“One half of scales carefully contending:”

“Remained undeviating, in equilibrium: so,”

“The post is yours, should it please…now let’s both move-on.”


~ Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Participation Mystique

~ Participation Mystique ~

~ From Modern Man in Search of a Soul ~ By ~ Carl Gustav Jung ~


‘Every creative person is a duality or a synthesis of contradictory aptitudes. On the one side he is a human being with a personal life, while on the other side he is an impersonal, creative process. Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument. The artist is not a person endowed with free will who seeks his own ends, but one who allows art to realize its purposes through him. As a human being he may have moods and a will and personal aims, but as an artist he is “man” in a higher sense ‘he’ is collective man, one who carries and shapes the unconscious, psychic life of mankind. To perform this difficult office it is sometimes necessary for him to sacrifice happiness and everything that makes life worth living for the ordinary human being.’

‘All this being so, it is not strange that the artist is an especially interesting case for the psychologist who uses an analytical method. The artist’s life cannot be otherwise than full of conflicts, for two separate forces are at war within him, on the one hand the common human longing for happiness, satisfaction and security in life, and on the other a ruthless passion for creation, which may go so far as to override every personal desire. The lives of artists are as a rule so highly unsatisfactory, not to say tragic, because of their inferiority on the human and personal side, and not because of a sinister dispensation. There are hardly any exceptions to the rule that a person must pay dearly for the divine gift of the creative fire. It is as though each of us were endowed at birth with a certain capital of energy. The strongest force in our make-up will seize and all but monopolize this energy, leaving so little over that nothing of value can come of it. In this way the creative force can drain the human impulses to such a degree that the personal ego must develop all sorts of bad qualities, ruthlessness, selfishness, and vanity and even every kind of vice, in order to maintain the spark of life and to keep itself from being wholly bereft. How can we doubt that it is his art that explains the artist, and not the insufficiencies and conflicts of his personal life? These are nothing but the regrettable results of the fact that he is an artist, that is to say, a man who from his very birth has been called to a greater task than the ordinary mortal. A special ability means a heavy expenditure of energy in a particular direction, with a consequent drain from some other side of life.’

‘It makes no difference whether the poet knows that his work is begotten, grows and matures with him, or whether he supposes that by taking thought he produces it out of the void. His opinion of the matter does not change the fact that his own work outgrows him as a child its mother. Whenever the creative force predominates, human life is ruled and moulded by the unconscious as against the active will, and the conscious ego is swept along on a subterranean current, being nothing more than a helpless observer of events. The working process becomes the poet’s fate and determines his psychic development.’

‘The archetypal image of the wise man, the saviour or redeemer, lies buried and dormant in man’s unconscious since the dawn of culture; it is awakened whenever the times are out of joint and a human society is committed to a serious error. When people go astray they feel the need of a guide or teacher or even of the physician. These primordial images are numerous, but do not appear in the dreams of individuals or in works of art until they are called into being by the waywardness of the general outlook. When conscious life is characterized by one-sidedness and by a false attitude, and then they are activated, one might say, instinctively, and come to light in the dreams of individuals and the visions of artists and seers, thus restoring the psychic equilibrium of the epoch.’

‘In this way the work of the poet comes to meet the spiritual need of the society in which he lives, and for this reason his work means more to him than his personal fate, whether he is aware of this or not. Being essentially the instrument for his work, he is subordinate to it, and we have no reason for expecting him to interpret it for us. He has done the best that in him lies in giving it form, and he must leave the interpretation to others and to the future. A great work of art is like a dream; for all its apparent obviousness it does not explain itself and is never unequivocal. A dream never says: ‘you ought to, this is the truth.’ It presents an image in much the same way as nature allows a plant to grow, and we must draw our own conclusions. If a person has a nightmare, it means either that he is too much given to fear, or else that he is too exempt from it; and if he dreams of the old wise man it may mean that he is too pedagogical, as also that he stands in need of a teacher. In a subtle way both meanings come to the same thing, as we perceive when we are able to let the work of art act upon us as it acted upon the artist. To grasp its meaning, we must allow it to shape us as it once shaped him. Then we understand the nature of his experience. We see that he has drawn upon the healing and redeeming forces of the collected psyche that underlies consciousness with its isolation and its painful errors; that he has penetrated to that matrix of life in which all men are embedded, which imparts a common rhythm to all human existence, and allows the individual to communicate his feeling and his striving to mankind as a whole.’

The secret of artistic creation and of the effectiveness of art is to be found in a return to the state of participation mystique, to that level of experience at which it is man who lives, and not the individual, and at which the weal or woe of the single human being does not count, but only human existence. This is why every great work of art is objective and impersonal, but none the less it profoundly moves us each and all. And this is also why the personal life of the Artist can be held essential to his art but at most help or a hindrance to his creative task. He may go the way of a Philistine, a good citizen, a neurotic, a fool or a criminal. His personal career may be inevitable and interesting, but it does not explain the Artist.’



~ From Modern Man in Search of a Soul ~ By ~ Carl Gustav Jung ~

Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd, London, and Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc, NYC


~ Artistic Compostions ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Tidal Rise

~ Tidal Rise ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Enigmatic Water, Gaia’s precious daughter,

Fluid in every way. Some say,

Whatever Earth taught her,

Brought us to this day.


Within seas of blue, aqua-marine,

Our genesis began evolving:

Amoebic life, primordial gloop,

 Wriggling amidst ancestral soup.


And that’s where She found me,

Floundering like a Clown,

Swimming in small circles,



“Why so timid little one?”

“Why so unsure?”

“Why not be all you are,”

“And stand upon the shore?”


With that She eased me gently,

Rippled a little wave,

“Come now,” She whispered in my ear,

“Be a little brave.”


Upon the crest of Her breast,

As mother with her child,

 She lay me down upon soft ground,

Stayed until I smiled.


She came and went with the tide,

Lulled by a silvery Moon:

Gave me place and space to grow,

Taught me how to attune.


By water’s side I crawled and cried:

This ride wasn’t for me!

I teetered, tottered, stumbled fell,

Eager to be back in the sea.


“Have heart my Love,” She said to me,”

Her words spoken tenderly,

“I’m never far away from thee,”

“Sweet child of my sea.”


Days went by, or was it years,

Time held no meaning for me,

By day I played, by night I prayed,

Whilst Loving Her mystery.


When then one day upon the shore,

No longer a child wanting more,

Risen a man by Nature’s Law,

Lady Water spoke to me.


“Tis time,” She said, “for me to go,”

“Back to where still water’s flow,”

“And you my dear, you must find,”

“Joy in Love, Peace of Mind.”


“Risen from crawling, no-longer bawling,”

“No longer bumbling along,”

“See Her Star shining bright afar,”

“Fall in-Love with Her song.”


I gazed away where high above,

Where distant on the horizon,

A Star shone shimmering Light,

Like diamond She was amazing.


“Who is that?” I asked aghast,

“Whose Light is shining-on?”

But turning back to the Sea,

Fair Lady Water had gone.


~ Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Emerald ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Scintillating is She in a cloak of green,

Awash with seas set glistening,

Turning through Space perpetually,

Our Emerald Jewel for Eternity.


Without Her Being where would we be?

A thought perhaps in the Mind of Thee?

As God’s precious gift to you and me,

We must Love Her universally.


~ Artwork/Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Word-Up! ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


We’d stayed all day within our glade,

Dappled sunlight between cool shade,

Sophia and I beneath warm sky,

Laid-out upon soft ground.


“Dewin,” she said, “a word in your ear,”

“A message for you from a Winged Seer,”

“Words he said of relevance,”

“Concerning Divine Intelligence.”


“Oh?” Said I with complete surprise,

“That sounds like flighty fun.”

“A message for me from Mercury,”

“Please do carry on.”


“He said he’d be gone for 88 days:”

“In quick orbit around our Sun,”

“And knew you would appreciate,”

“A little illumination.”


“What a guy!” Said I with a sigh,

“Refreshing as a mountain breeze!”

“A true Maverick across all time,”

“He knows just how to please.”


“Indeed agreed,” Sophia decreed,

“Though he’s a little head-strong,”

“I miss his congenial company,”

“Whenever he is gone.”


“Bless him,” she said turning red,

“My counsel throughout the ages,”

“Between you and me Lord Mercury,”

“Is my favourite of the Sages.”


“Your secrets safe,” I said to her,

“Ill not tell a soul,”

“Or squeal to reveal your human side,”

“Nor upset the apple bowl.”


She blushed once more before composed,

When then her words easily flowed,

“He was quite exact in what he said,”

“About words that led to gold.”


“Divine intelligence contains 5 elements,”

“All with relevance and meaning,”

“Master them all you’ll never fall,”

“And limitless will be your ceiling.”


Metanoia,” said Sophia, “is the first idea,”

“The ability to renew your mind.”

“To boldly go beyond shadow:”

“To redefine your current thinking.”


Without breaking flow, Sophia unrelenting,

Dianoia,” she said, “is new understanding,”

“Inspired dialogue sparking new insight,”

“Encourages one’s mind to reach new heights.”


“Then comes Epinoia and illumination:”

“Lighting up one’s imagination,”

“Luminous thinking guided consciously,”

“Leading one’s mind towards reverie.”


Ennoia,” she continued with eloquence,

“The ability to focus Divine intelligence.”

“Is conscious intention and due-diligence:”

“The mother of all beneficence.”


“Last on his list came Enthymesis,”

“Heartfelt passion, burning desire.”

“A tricky one this: best defined as bliss,”

“When one’s consumed by Divine Fire.”


~ Photography/Artwork and Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


~ ~



~ Breathe ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Whose Heart knows the name of the Wind,

 Or tastes the lips from which she flows?

Whose Soul knows the kiss of a breeze,

Or where indeed air goes?


Late was the hour, light weak and sour,

Fashioned dusk with urgency,

From my bower: a room with a view,

I contemplated meteorology.


To be specific it was the air:

Its elemental phenomenology,

I wondered quite how it worked,

And how it effected me.


Egress and ingress I understood,

In terms of an unconscious act,

But quite how I knew what to do,

That was my missing fact.


I don’t recall the initial breath,

Nor indeed the initial slap:

The strike that started my breathing life,

Nor the midwife thumping my back.


She obviously knew a thing or two,

Else I’d not be here at all,

But since that day in early May,

Have I breathed using free-will?


How is it that I get no choice –

In whether I breathe or not?

Is Life so precious as to demand,

That I breathe and never stop?


What purpose is there other than life?

Or is that a foolish question?

If only I truly understood:

I needed illumination.


Faintly perfumed the air this night,

Spring had sprung with all Her might,

Life flourished within my sight, and,

All was right within my world.


A lofted Moon made room for stars,

Day had left to write memoirs,

Whilst high above Venus and Mars,

Formed a stellium with Jupiter.


Upon night air, upon the wing,

An Owl flew upon the wind,

Silent was she in reverie,

Pursuing her personal affairs.


I waited until she were a speck,

A fleck amongst night’s weave,

When then I realised I’d held my breath,

And begun at once to breathe.


Twas that first breath, or shining stars,

Shimmering upon high: but that

First breath after having paused,

Lifted me into night’s sky.


Then there was I alongside the Owl,

Sharing her sublime dream:

Racing, pacing, never hastening,

Slipping between Moonbeams.


What seemed liked hours never-ending

Rising, rising, we were ascending,

Always higher, whilst I extending,

As if transcending all earthly ties.


When then at last transitioning skies,

Kissed by morning’s golden sunrise,

And there before surprised-wide eyes,

A reason to leave me breathless!


~ Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



~ Burn ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~


Silent was I, stood gazing away,

Across a vale whilst mist at play,

Laid a veil thinly grey,

Upon Autumn’s ashen day.


Twiggy trees splayed and swayed,

Whilst russet leaves made their way,

To destinations far away: but yet,

Where they’ll rest I cannot say.


High in the sky soft clouds scatter,

Abandoned raindrops left to patter,

Left to splatter, to pool, to puddle,

Muddling upon middle Earth.


Disquieted am I despite my ease,

Chilled by Autumn’s cooling breeze,

Set sailing upon tumultuous seas,

As if baring Straits of Messina.


When then soft flutter of ruby wings,

Fills my mind with a thousand things,

Pours her Love into my dreams –

A voice in my heart gently sings.


“Breathe my Love, hold me within,”

“Deep inside, inside your skin,”

“Set-free your pain and suffering,”

“Let go your sadness and chagrin,”


“Tis I my Love, Divine Wisdom.”

“Releasing you from your prison,”

“Sophia my name, I am the twin,”

“Of One whose Love you know within,”


At first unsure, I stuttered once,

Torn by tide and circumstance: but yet,

Lulled by her Providence,

Such incidence was short-lived.


Upon my hearth she placed an ember,

Brightly burning at my centre,

Flames of fire O so tender!

Flared my heart like no other.


Fire raged to purge my scourge:

Chastening the very heart of me,

Wave upon wave of burning Fire,

Graced by her Sovereignty.


She burnt and burnt and burnt some more,

Until, I reeling met the floor:

A ceiling where kneeling with head now bowed,

Beheld my Love upon her cloud.


O sweet release as if surrender!

My Soul swollen by her Splendour,

My Heart absolved of ill-temper: and I,

Tempered by Love forevermore.


~ Artwork/Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~



Love, Empathy and Compassion are the greatest of all human affections, and Friendship the noblest and most refined improvement of Love. It matters not in which order they flow. By Friendship I mean the greatest Love and the greatest usefulness, and the most open communication, and the noblest sufferings, and the heartiest counsel and the greatest union of mind and spirit of which two souls are capable. At its heart lies Intimacy, for when we are intimate with someone we are simultaneously being intimate with ourselves. What emerges from this exquisite seduction is the Elegance, Grace and Splendour of a flowering Radiant Rose.


Thou fair-haired angel of the evening,

Now, whilst the Sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of Love, thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves, and, while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver.


~ William Blake, ‘To The Evening Star’ ~


~ Artistic Composition ~ By ~ Dewin Nefol ~