Wyrd Woods

The Old Words

''We need to teach the children the old words,

words like brabble and grubble,

twitter-light and clinkerbell;

words which dance and trip and slip

and drip like honey off the tongue

Teach them that a hazy halo of cloud

around the moon is called a moonbroch

and that swiftly moving clouds are named cairies;

how a vixen’s wedding is a sunny shower of rain,

and that a single sunbeam breaking through thick cloud

is known as a messenger

Teach them to know the seasons and scents

of queen of the meadow and bride of the sun,

how to tell Jupiter’s staff from fairy fingers

and which roses bloom with the strawberry moon

Teach them to spot pricklebacks in the tottlegrass,

how to recognise a smeuse or a bishop-barnaby,

when to watch the sky for flittermice and yaffles,

and to pay attention to the dumbeldore and mousearnickle

as she graces the lazy leahs of summer

Teach them a few of the old Sussex words for mud,

like gubber and slub and stodge and pug,

so they know that the precious soil beneath their toes

is anything but worthless dirt

Teach them to be users and keepers and makers

of the words which bring the land alive:

a storybook, where everything has its rightful place,

including us;

where the wilds are fearful and filled with magic

and people do noble things, and nothing is impossible

In this world of harsh new words —

words like planetary dysmorphia and solastalgia,

extinction debt and grief mitigation,

megadrought and megafire,

anthropogenic, pyrocene,

words which alarm and get stuck in our throats

describing a world which our hearts cannot grasp —

we need to teach the children the old words,

so that if they should feel lost,

the old words might colour for them

a warm and breathing, living map,

a light to guide them safely home."

Holly and the Ivy

Nay, my nay, hyt shal not be I wys,

Let holy hafe the maystry, as the maner ys:

Holy stond in the hall, faire to behold,

Ivy stond without the dore, she ys ful sore acold,

Nay, my nay Holy and hys mery men, they dawnseyn and they syng,Ivy and hur maydyns, they wepen and they wryng.

Nay, my nay Holly stands in the hall, fair to behold:Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a cold.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Holly and his merry men, they dance and they sing,

Ivy and her maidens, they weep and they wring.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Ivy hath chapped fingers, she caught them from the cold,

So might they all have, aye, that with ivy hold.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Holly hath berries red as any rose,

The forester, the hunter, keep them from the does.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Ivy hath berries black as any sloe;

There come the owl and eat him as she go.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Holly hath birds a fair full flock,The nightingale, the popinjay, the gentle laverock.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.

Good ivy, what birds hast thou?

None but the owlet that cries how, how.

Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;

Don’t only practice your art, But force your way into its secrets. For it and knowledge can Raise men to the divine

“Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting.”