© Jennifer K. Marsh 2015

There once was a man so holy of heart,
though oft times he wondered when his life would start;
he roamed through his town with his shadow forlorn,
beset by a sense that the world he must mourn.
For, though holy his heart, a piece was misplaced,
which could not be found with imprudent haste –
like flowers that blossom with each merry spring,
the timing of Grace is a delicate thing.

And as this man rambled through well-trodden streets
he yearned for a beauty for his eyes to greet,
but where could he find such delight to the eye
when all his surrounds were a joy so denied?
How this man yearned for the blush of a flower
to inspire a smile through his lonely hours!
And so with a sigh and a drop of his head,
he wandered away to meet what lay ahead.

His feet led the way, knowing not where they went,
but being a vagrant bettered silent laments;
he would wander afar to seek what had been lost,
through valleys and tors, and sunshine and frost.
Perhaps, so he thought, if he ventured these lands,
someday he’d return with a flower in hand,
for with hope in his step and with faith in his soul
he would find the stray piece to make his heart whole.

Ever onwards he went, though the flowers he saw
were pretty and special, and yet nothing more –
he saw flowers of peach, of pink and of blue,
but knew that in spirit for others they grew.
Though he was perplexed by the flowers in sight,
for they wilted not beneath the blazing sunlight;
they were as gentle and as fair as could be
and suffered none in the heat – which was not so for he.

How he longed for the shade as he journeyed the dale!
Alas, no trees he found to offer avail.
The sky above had not even a cloud
to ease the travail he felt on the ground.
Only woe he had found as he travelled abroad,
and so, with despair, he cried out to the Lord:
“Why must my heart bear such sorrow as this!
Why is your Grace not enough for my bliss!”

So passed the day ’til the sun’s fall was due,
for the dusk welcomed he with a heavenly hue.
Relief was his own when the heat fell away,
and so he awaited the nightly display;
soon he would see the diamond dance of the stars
and moonstruck he’d be by the light of afar.
His wonder so grew for the dark mystery –
a vision of glory so melancholy!

But then as he trod ever marvelling still,
providence sang over wind-smitten hills;
it taught him of patience – his heart would soon sing! –
for he was so blessed, and a lover of spring.
The truth of these words he could not deny,
but his heart still wept for a flower to find.
But then his eyes met, on the horizon faint,
the shape of a tree that compelled to acquaint.

The tree greeted him with a smile and said,
“Hail, weary traveller, may my roots make your bed!
Dear child of God, I bid you rest beside me,
for you are my keeper and in return I keep thee.”
The man offered his thanks, expressed humble and true,
but the tree spoke again, for foretelling he knew:
“I have heard word that a flower you seek:
Turn and behold! The Lord’s flowers are meek.”

The man turned and beheld but he could not admire,
for this flower was frigid and stirred no desire;
she hid her bloom from the light of the sun
and retired her beauty to instead only shun.
But though this was so, he was caught by intrigue,
for what flower can hide with such quiet mystique?
How would she be if she opened her heart?
Would she be fearful, or broken, or dark?

The tree chuckled and said, with much good intent,
“You know in your heart this here flower I meant!”
The man did respond, “But how is this so?
For she is no heavenly image I know.”
And the tree so replied, “And so that should be,
since her beauty is only for your eyes to see!
She has been waiting for her sacred spring,
for the timing of Grace is a delicate thing!”

He sat down in thought, pondering over his plight
as he was amongst the ever darkening light.
So came to be the sky faded to black
and the stars sparked to life for him to gaze at;
they waltzed around the moon’s silver throne,
but how could it be the moon seemed so alone?
And yet, even so, it was the sphere of peace,
and night brought him many a sentiment sweet.

But then he noticed amidst the gentle moonshine
that now arose Grace, for the timing was nigh:
the flower, with care, did open her bloom
beneath the pale light of the moon.
Her petals were bold in a delicate white –
an angel that shone in God’s holy light!
Her beauty was more than he could ever tell:
she was the moonlight’s own precious belle.

But what did he see when she opened her heart?
She held a fragment – his heart’s missing part.
She was of heaven, this he now knew,
for within her the Holy Ghost surely grew;
she was his gift for his heart so divine –
the piece he had always been yearning to find.
With blessings abound the Lord showed him the One,
and his heart was anew – a new life had begun!

Nevermore would this man pine through the hours,
for he had found her – his little moonflower.


It has been a while since I have done anything on this blog, and an even longer while since I have written/shared a poem. I believe I’ve said before that I never write poetry unless deeply compelled to, and ‘Moonflower’ came to be in quite a… Well, I was cleaning the house when out of nowhere the idea popped up in my mind. I knew I had to let this one out. I don’t think I’ve ever written such a long poem, either – it just kept on going and going! Still, it tells a story, so it’s okay.

As for the odd (and not desperately wonderful) sketch I did to accompany the poem… I’m not quite sure what happened with that, to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t supposed to be what it ended up as. I planned to draw a tree with a man kneeling by it, admiring a blooming flower in the moonlight, but, when I sat down at my desk with pencil in hand, the above happened. For whatever reason, I drew a woman’s hand with the flower coming out of it… And the rest is history. Make of it what you will.

We have all heard of the glorious sunflower, yes? It is sunshine in a flower, blooming and flourishing in the sunlight.

But did you know there is a moonflower? What a gentle thing this flower is! It does not bloom during the day, but rather once the sun has set. It blooms throughout the night.


I want a garden full of moonflowers, so I may see its white beauty, and feel as if the moon’s essence dwells before me in a delicate flower once the night falls. And maybe these moonflowers can be grown amongst some sunflowers, for when one opens the other rests, and the sun is a joy to behold! The sun and the moon, different as they may be, are very much one. Though, for me, my heart lives on the moon.

An aside: I wrote a little song about the sun and the moon once – a ‘love’ story, if you will, between the two. 

‘So the two share the sky, though at differing times,

yet they long to know something more.

Can the sun hide away?

Can the moon see the day?

Would their yearning soon make them fall?’


I feel very much like the man in the poem at the moment. A wanderer. Lonely. Mourning what is not there to be mourned. Maybe I too should wander away in pursuit of my flower… *sigh* 


May you find your flower, be it one of the sun or the moon,

and be at peace, my friends.

Blessings keep you,



‘Flowering Field’, image from Pulsar Ecard

The four seasons are equally as important as one another, for each holds its own beauty, and all are necessary and essential for nature’s cycle.

Spring is such a pretty season. The world comes alive with colour and dance and the sound of nature’s song. You can hear the bees buzzing on the wind and the birds serenading the world, and you can see the flowers emerging from hiding and the lambs springing through fresh green grass, all the while the strengthening sun kisses your face and gives you that much needed warm hug after the trying period of winter, whispering, “I’m back,” as it does so. And when you cast your eyes to the hills, you can see that nature has used them as its canvas, splashing paint across every inch, and the sky above is that gorgeous baby blue.

The seasons are very significant to the Ilimoskus since they are, of course, deeply entwined with nature itself, and because we are in spring, I thought I would share with you exactly what spring means to them.

Natsena (Spring)

In the Kurpian language, the word for spring is ‘natsena’ (pronounced: “nat-seh-nah”)

Spring is the time of ‘blooming nature’. It is the season of rebirth and the time to move forward after the arduous winter period. It is the symbol of patience, hope and determination, for golden times will come to be, yet while they wait, they have the privilege to observe nature’s sweet awakening. In the Ilimoskus world, spring is actually the time of their ‘new year’, if you will, and this is due to what it symbolises: as winter is the time of death, spring is the time of birth, for nature – and the world – is reborn.

Spring is said to be the season of the Humitt-kus (the earth folk) due the growing and blossoming plant life that comes with this time in nature’s cycle.


See here for the other seasons:


– Autumn



'Winter Wood', image from Pulsar Ecard

‘Winter Wood’, image from Pulsar Ecard

The four seasons are equally as important as one another, for each holds its own beauty, and all are necessary and essential for nature’s cycle.

Winter is my personal favourite season of them all. It’s so beautiful! (I’m so not biased with my love for it or anything) The frost sparkles in the gentle sunlight like the most precious of jewels while the chill in the air whispers of long forgotten memories and secrets from a bygone age. Although the colours have faded to plunge us into a world of monochrome, there is a haunting beauty in seeing the skeleton of a tree being buried by the snow.

Or, at least that’s what winter is meant to be like. The UK’s winter so far has been a disgrace. It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring! What were once green fields are now lakes, and what were once roads are now rivers. We’re swimming around here. Floods galore!

The seasons are very significant to the Ilimoskus since they are, of course, deeply entwined with nature itself, and because we are in winter, I thought I would share with you exactly what winter means to them.

Natbua (Winter)

In the Kurpian language, the word for winter is natbua’ (pronounced: “nat-bwoh”).

Winter is the time of ‘cold nature’. It is the season of death – or simply the end of nature’s cycle – and is the time for reflection; for this reason, it is considered to be the most spiritual and intellectual season, for while nature lies dormant, they can see the world through a new, temporary vision, and reflect over the year that has passed them by. Akin to the season of spring, winter is the symbol of patience and hope, yet this time it is not in such pleasant surroundings. They must conquer any negativity during adversity and live with open minds and open eyes, for only then will they appreciate the importance of this arduous season, and see the beauty both at present and the impending beauty of springtime. With every uphill climb there is a downhill roll.

Winter is said to be the season of the Agwikus (the water folk) due to the quiet reflection and understated beauty associated with this time in nature’s cycle. In addition to this, cold conditions are an Agwikus’ favourite.


See here for the other seasons:


 – Summer

– Autumn