Laura Bos

Dweller in the East lands, walker of meadow and hedge, thinker and dreamer. Weaver of words and sometimes a bit arty. Lover of coffee shops and hand-dyed yarns.


Diary 2024

Soft haze descends upon the evening meadow, here there is peace, deep and rich as earth. Pasture spun with clover, edged by dark thorn and a thousand days of blessed birdsong flowing through the ether.

It is here the brown hare settles in her form surrounded by buttercups and folklore as old as the first heartbeat.

It is where the barn owl partakes of the smooth evening air with thoughts of nimble mouse under a hunter’s moon.

Here the shadows are long, and the magic of the land old.

It is where the ripples gather in the swelling ditches framed by honeysuckle and briar rose, nourished by sweet summer showers that fall upon parched, cracked soil when the day called for rain.

It is here the fox makes an evening path through the long grass that shapes to his deep red coat, while above, the tawny owl blends within the folds of the oak mantle.

Where the cuckoo pipes his woody notes heralding the chorus of summer and the bees hum, dizzy with pollen and memories of the may queen.

It is here the meadow is rich with markings, tide and season. Toil and rest, rapture and dreaming.

A thousand verses of joy in every leaf, petal and stem.

Landmarks © Laura Bos 2022

A tangle of campion, pale pink among the cream,
A wild verge that softens the edges of industry.
For want of a moment, a bee may hum,
His journey over streets with meadow names,
Where once the cornflowers deepest blue
Filled the song of days with such radiance,
And speckled butterflies courted among the sweetness before the iron cut deep,
Taking memories and poems to cover in concrete progress,
But the edges still sing,
The rogue thorn still blossoms in May,
The ivy covers the now fading sign,
And the world may be busy with the works of industry,
But nature still whispers at the edge of every town.

Edge Land © Laura Bos 2022


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


Diary 2016

Let your heart unfold as the stirring of the eve beckons the moon to rise to her chambers that she may grace this eve, oh sweet the blackbirds’ song,

As leaves fall in the stillness, so the mantle throws deepness and mist upon the oak, as slowly he stirs to catch the stars in his branches,

And all around is shifting, its form altered by the changing light.

For all is beginning in this woven place, threads of night pulling together with pearls of starlight between the stitches, new colours of landscapes, the ebb of tides graces the flow of the loom, a never ending tale spun with secrets and new stories and those yet to be heard.

Weaver of shadows, caster of dreams, fashioner of connections, spin me a tale that I too may share of your words,

Deep within, birthing the night,

Bringing together at the time of shadows.

The Place of Hidden Memory Part 2. © Laura Bos 2014

By day I’ll rise on wings of hawk and I shall dance upon the air, I’ll weave amongst the tree line, through thorn and oak at sharp speeds in the blink of an eye.

I’ll dive into murky river waters and let the cold sweep my scale skin, I will follow the flow and swim through tangles of weed and seek the source of my birth.

I shall pad lightly across the meadow on paws of silk and follow the scent of mouse upon the noon day breeze. Here I shall sit and unwind my amber stare, sharpen my claws for the thrill of the hunt to come.

By night’s shadow embrace I’ll take to the air once more, on pale ghost wings to trace the path of the stars. With eyes as black as darkest pools I’ll see the beauty of the moon in all her crescent glory and feel at one with all those who live in the shadows.

I’ll change again and don the coat of fur the shade of rust, give my voice to the night with a bark and yelp. I’ll journey close to the shaped and changing land, hunt for those that are unaware and let their minds drift and fall for my cunning charms. I’ll slip beneath the earth as the sun’s rays return in the beginning of the dawn and dream of sacred connections with every beat of my heart.

Shape Shifter © Laura Bos 2014


Diary 2015

I have given my heart to the river, so my words like songs may tumble over the smooth pebbles and be carried in the ebb and flow.

I have given my spirit to the green pastures, of fields and hedgerows spun and woven. My soul dances across the golden fields in autumn’s ready bliss.

The wind has taken my song, gathered it up and cast it into the air. My whispers heard in the gentle movement of leaves when summer’s sweet caress lightly touches the silver birch.

I have given my love to the forest, for the magic which dwells in that wild place. Cast in dappled sunlight the ancient sacred heart wood, sap rising through my veins and twigs tangled in my hair.

I have given my fears to the shadow cave. Let them return to the Mother and heal. Let them transform and change with the returning sun. Warm mellow light awaken new dreams within me.

Let all twist and weave, mix and blend, in honouring connection with all that is.

I Have Given My Heart To The River © Laura Bos 2013

The pathway she calls me, her voice is meadow sweet and elderflower whispered.

Down the pathway I travel, through dark and damp hedgerow beauty, words honey sweet fill the air.

Footsteps from my ancestors ghost guide me, a shadow glimpsed through the greenery of hawthorn.

Underfoot the dark earth swells with the rising energy, stirring roots and hearts alike, green sap quickening.

The pathway twists and turns, the trees lean closer, wise guardians bestowing wisdom in the mutterings of their leaves.

The way is ivy-like, weaving in and out of thorn and beech, binding me and connecting me within and to it.

I touch something deeper here, much more than soul skin deep, a shared heartbeat with our mother earth and she who guards the ways.

Pathway © Laura Bos

I am breaking and I am tearing through the molten mixing of pewter and umber in this thundering skyline,

I am birch barked and ragged, hedgerow bright blessed and blackthorn dark twisted,

I am joyous and dancing in early April rain, I am crow winged and shrieking in unyielding dark November gales,

I am storm spun and frightening, I am mottled sunlight in amber and gold,

I am evergreen cloaked and everlasting, splinter sharp and laughing,

I dwell dreaming pool deep and shadow water guided,

I am wave washed and bleached bone, sacred spring cleansed and healing,

I am an echo of your passion, a palette of crimson hues, I am plough blessed and earth driven across your patchwork fields,

I am earth born and star dust, air carried and fire ash burnt,

I am deep within you and yet I am all that is.

Breaking © Laura Bos 2013