Laura Bos

Laura Bos is a dreamer, seeker of wild paths and dreaming meadows and lover of this wild Earth. She calls Norfolk home, that place where land is never far from the sea and a tea shop is just round the corner!

Email: lore.feline@hotmail.co.uk

Diary 2023

Lightning breaks the horizon as thunder rumbles and the ancient dance of earth and sky commences. The wind she gathers blossom petals of cherry and pear, casting them down as an offering to spring upon the earth, as the blackbird tries in vain to raise his voice above the song of the storm. Thus the fresh growth of spring reaches to catch the rain. Leaves supple and rich with sap, bright against the untamed sky. Thunder stirs the wild within, calling us to step outside and dance in the showers barefoot to the chant of the rain, while storm clouds race like wild ponies across the quickening sky. Breathe in the storm, taste this wild medicine and let it soothe those frayed edges that are our woundings. Smell the scent of rain-soaked earth as it nourishes and enlivens. Let a little of this magic touch your soul. Raise your palms to the sky and remember you are part of this too. You can be changeable as the season, blessed by firelight and full moon. Take all this within you and fashion forth a talisman to carry when the streets are tame and footsteps are the only utterings to be heard.

Healing Storm © Laura Bos

 

Diary 2020

The day was the shade of a collared dove’s wing, early showers having broken the intermittent light. I made my way to where the silver willows dust the moon with their branches, their bark cracked and weeping in the pale light. The mud and the water oozed, soaking my boots with the memory of sudden snow showers. My feet became wet and I felt a kinship to the pale egret as she wades the river’s edge, eyes sharp to the auguries hidden within those watery depths. In amongst those tired weavings of dock and mugwort bleached and faded by the east wind, the first snowdrops danced, bright sisters, a cheer to a winter-weary heart! A crown fit for spring’s return, a lantern under a full moon. How the river whispered! Voices and mutterings in the swollen waters, enchantments swept along, old words for this bright land, deep remembering within my bones, a sense of deep self, a feeling of gladness and peace.

Quickening © Laura Bos 2018

Do you accept yourself? Wrap those arms of fire around you as the tears they flow? Stand with bare feet upon the earth, feeling the sharpness of night raw against your soles? Know within the chambers of your heart that under this sky of a million stars, at this point, at this time, all that counts is the stillness. Do you go within when all around you is noise? When the media soaks the pavements and echoes of materialism shout from every page? Do you drift? Slip quietly away to weave between the bramble patches, to seek your brethren of feather and fur? Sit quietly with the nettle and watch the speckled butterfly dance court with the noonday sun. Does the etching of this good earth turn your worn palms into the maps of that which makes your soul sing? Does the chance encounter on your homeward journey with the pale-winged barn owl cause shivers of recognition to dance over your skin? And what of the new moon crescent? Does she call to you to step out from behind closed doors?

Take up the mantle of moss, the hidden in this busy world. Step onto the path, twine your fingers through clinging ivy and taste the wild upon your tongue. Be bold, carry the passion within your heart. Take the journey, with blessings and an open and giving mind.

Being © Laura Bos 2018

I shall stomp like a brown bear to strengthen my boundaries. Put hands in the dirt, spit and rub well. Salt and loom. Palms upheld to the strong bright crescent, a root settling within the chambers of my heart.

I shall fashion a cloth, to wear on my hips. Collect trinkets from those wild places, some bright pieces sharp as a weasel’s eye, other faded fragments held together with sea-washed findings. A twine of autumn, bitter winter thorn, swallow feather and amber sunlight.

As the hedgerow settles and mutters, and dusk gathers from beneath a jackdaw’s wing, so the wind becomes cutting, sharp as plough tine, cold as hoar frost, howling like a wolf spirit across the open heath. It makes me restless, sets me prowling, pacing.

I’m seeing a familiar land with fresh new eyes, cool beneath my feet, senses primed, heightened. We take each other in, breathing deep, scent of soil and clay, scent of soot and smoke. All becomes part of the story, the narrative. New myths are forming as we step out onto the land, as we defend her and give of our voice and let our actions cause a stirring that others might follow, and let this stirring become imprinted upon the ether.

Fierce © Laura Bos 2018

 

Diary 2019

This old land is stirring: the first fingers of daybreak touch the crystal frost as it whispers high amongst the bone-like branches of the blackthorn. Soft rose light breaks the mist which is woven like a story, a deep murmur, painting the edges with gold as a robin gladdens the landscape with his hope-filled song, rousing the heart to quest the beauty in every step, eyes full of dreaming and a soul song ancient and yet timeless. The geese, winter pilgrims, return to the land that gives way to mirrored soul pools, pale light carried on soft down; a hush cuts the air, a feather caught and dancing on an icy breeze, slowly drifting. A talisman to the land of crystal and frost, ivy-wrapped and blood-berry bright, I leave my offering, hidden among the bramble thorns and faded leaves of silver birch, that I might know this place more, that I might call it home. I turn my face, basked for the briefest of moments in that warm honey of pale sun. At my feet sleek and with the iridescence of storm-blessed skies lies the feather of the crow; my voice has been heard as I slip quietly amongst the day.

Winter Light © Laura Bos 2017

I found a feather patterned map-like with the currents of the air. Following an old path through a dusky meadow, enriched by spring orchids and garlic mustard, a crown fit for the hive queen, a dilly dance of the bumble bee. To be a seeker of green places, a deep yearning, lost among the hawthorn blossom dancing, spinning and drifting like pollen upon this glad breeze. My sight awakens, senses sharp as the brown hare rising stag-like in the green barley meadow, the smell of sweet rain upon the air.

I trace the outline of the labyrinth, measured steps on paw print paths, totem beasts and ancestors guiding, their voices caught in the rustle of poplar leaves shimmering moon-like in those faded edges. The soil, loamy and rich, guides my roots down so I might draw up this shining land medicine, draw it up to my heart which drums with passion for all that I behold. A thorn scratch becomes an initiation, scarlet drops on dark earth and twisted bark ravaged by elements of harsh tides driven inland by the wild east wind, as she howls banshee-voiced into the hollows. I take my rest here, fern and ivy a place for my head as my soul begins to dream.

The Seeker © Laura Bos 2017

Shore line, the edge of one reality betwixt the merging of the dreaming tides with this shining land, ever changing. A soft whisper of shifting sands, kelp-edged and silver-spun to a roaring fury, twisting like an enchanted mare in the wake of winter’s high tide, plunging and diving, spitting foam into the east wind. Waters dark and hissing, a folly even for the brave.

I felt your pull, stepped into your waters on a summer’s day, when the sun as bright as barley, beat from a noonday sky. I was surrounded by pebbles, glossy after your wake, their shapes taking on tales and stories, as words they filled my head and salt touched my lips. As gulls wheeled above your undulating currents, their feathers cast and drifting to find their place amongst the flotsam and shore tangles, tales of old fishermen and wise sea beasts preserved in your salty shallows and whispered to those who gather on shingle under a dancing moon, eyes wide and hearts open to your ways, to seek the sand, polished like a mirror’s surface, deep and smooth, full of reflections, a divination for the soulful scryer before you claim back your shore.

Shore © Laura Bos 2017

 

Diary 2017

Sometimes I dream of home, a wild place with restless hills, with grass that drags at my ankles as if to pull me into that rich soil song. A place whose thorn trees whisper to my unfolding dreams, of twirling winds that chase at meadow sweet and cast up that magic to the rose dawn sky. I slip amongst the turned pasture, of ridgeway and hollow hills, forgotten dances remembered in my awakening step. As larks sing mellow lights to the ancient land, as butterflies drink of fading blooms windswept and tangled, all is remembered in the shadows of this wild and haunted place.

Dusk: it is carried on soft night-bird wings; the courtship of the silver lady of the sky begins once more. The hush of that tween place felt by those who drink deep of the turning year, who sink into the stones, the bones of this earth. If I fall by the wayside, forget who I am, I shall seek out my travel pouch and find within the treasure of hedgerow woven into the talisman of sloe and haw. As the gorse greets this summer’s kiss, let it be a blessing of joyful love enriching the blessed journey for those seekers of pilgrimages, the hermits and wild, wild women, those different folk, our forgotten family. Hear the vixen’s call, tread softly on the way, look deep within the dark pools and feel the stirrings in your heart. Let the ancient voice call you.... Home.

Sometimes I Dream of Home © Laura Bos 2015

This eve is unfolding, spinning tales of honey sweetness upon this departing day. The air of hush washes clean the importance of feathered squabbles and the fleeting dance of brimstone’s wing. It sinks deep, deep within the splendid richness of this soil’s song. How that stillness speaks! It seems to drape its trappings amongst the pines, blurring and fading the edges. My eyes awaken, the wildness stirs my soul. I cast off all that I thought I knew, and drink deep of this shadowy mystery as the wind of this eve stirs the forgotten places, the tread of ancestors cast amongst the shadows, a pathway beckons to my pilgrim’s roused heartbeat.

Paths of night ripple across barley fields, moving almost ocean- like, deep emerald they roll in on winds that whisper with a chill that cuts a shiver to my pale warm skin. Words seem to rise up on the wings of owl, they fill my thoughts and the sweet song of the earth mother is a taste upon my lips. My being is swept along with this eve song. Every nerve in my body is full of this energy, my heart is overflowing with the sense of sacredness of this land beneath my bare feet. I look up to the heavens, as stars mark out stories of beast and bird. So it is within me that I awaken to myself once more.

Spinning the Eve © Laura Bos 2015