Words streaming through my body in conversations with land, dreams, deep imagination, the beloved, soul, Earth Community, Cosmos.....
Here is some of the poetry that swirled in the eddy, flowed, shaped the banks of the burns and rivers on the way to sea. Others can be found in my book "Whispers; Imagining Earth Community, Surrendering to Earth's Wisdom' and more yet to publish 
all poetry copyright Wendy Robertson Fyfe, image: Sage Canyon, Colorado, wrf

What if

we remember the depth 

of what it means to be human;

enter a portal

to stars

and earth’s core;

converse with trees and seas

imagine into sunbeams and streams

be dreamt into mountain and stag.


What if

we remember beauty, 

our own and Others;

singing them by their own true names

and making a pilgrimage to remember our own;

a name given before birth,

remembered by the Others

such as soil and the milky way

in living image, symbol, metaphor, and myth;

a name not invited 

by this current industrial extraction culture

where forests scream with the voices of animals burning

and whales swallow plastic as they feed; 

swim off-course due to human created noise and greed

from the great forgetting and the great longing.


What if

we live singing our own true name

with all beings, 



What if

we live from our unique place in the community of Allbeings,

singing our note with the cosmic symphony:

with iron atoms created from nebula collisions 

   -did you know there is one atom of iron in every human heart?-

with cyanobacteria creating the ozone over millions of years, 

and painted lady butterflies pilgrimaging over generations;

each surrendering to Mystery’s love call, a different kind of Gravity.


What if

with that very note a heartcrack grief 

opens us to The Holy

remembering love divine

in marrow married in our bones

in animate ozone offering breath

in sweet-scented wild mint meadows

in tears nourishing flower, hummingbird to nectar,

in moonblood to earth and water,

in sacred sage offerings.


What if 

we remember praise, prayer

and celebration;

in so doing 

makes all the difference

with Allbeings then, now and to come.


May it be so.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Longing for you, my love,

l dive headlong deep into your crevice.

Everything depends on it.

Moist sweet mint meadow of the forest.


Wendy Robertson Fyfe

The Holm


A tiny fruit and cup in perfect fit

sits in the centre of my palm.


At some point

the acorn has to crack

be cracked 

in order to take root.

Does such a one feel the crack, l wonder?


At some point the fruit shapeshifts,

loses its original shape,

to become the tree it is meant to be;


is shaped by, entangled with other forces,

other beings,

like wind, rain, hail, ice and snow

sun, earth, rock, bird, insect, squirrel,

air, carbon, mycelium networks, song…


Who would embark on such a journey

where the acorn, the shape from which

the tree is born, becomes no more

and yet in the marrow of all.


Oh, that we too


to such a wild shaping.


Wendy Robertson Fyfe

When the Earth’s Dream Roars 


Can you hear the breaking song

of vast Earth plates

rising and heaving

through the great turning up;

all else being tossed

down in the fall

as ‘under’

emerges into air.

Remember this.


Maybe not as vast as if

the Milky Way himself were to turn…

but vast enough. And

who can say what the impact of a roar is

or how far it reaches.

Remember this.


It is because of The Bursting Spark;

with Universe birthing,

and Earth’s roaring

that we are here today.

Remember this.


We humans too are now knowingly participating

in the Cosmic fire,

turning and falling

as a new consciousness

emerges, rising, singing.

Remember this.


How will you be turning up?


Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Wild Heart Seeds


I’m being juggled

like a body rattle

feeling wild grown seeds

sounding in my heart,



In the heat of Iona

my heart opens;

an abundance of seeds spray 

out into the Atlantic winds…..



Wendy Robertson Fyfe




Icicles hang from limestone’s organic 

mush of shell, coral, algal 

and fecal stir of ancient years underfoot

on which we tread today and 

breathe in the ground

of our becoming.


Between the layers lie down coal 

seams above volcanic rock

where stone rub marks record the

grind of rock against rock

in earthquake amid carboniferous 

fossil. This land forming south of the Equator, 

through tectonic scouring and depressions

is currently river mouth to the North Sea;

shaping by glaciations and glacial 

erosions; a deep basin carving by 

waves and wind hallowing.


Ice moves once more into longing

memory of place where

tears in stone and bone 

mark a heart break of time across

541 million years and 

counting; being brought to our knees

in the depression Sound

the human heart thaws.


Sometimes the melting happens

closest to the stone,

as tears to the bone in 

the Great Remembering;

abundance in Cosmic ways and

our niche in a bigger story 

being sculpted, being sung.


Wendy Robertson Fyfe

This seed

is the universe


One day,

it will crack open

and then,

who knows….


My heart

now expanding…

cracks open.

The entire universe

spills out.


Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Cailleach’s Eye


A dark portal

to Earth’s fiery core

and beyond the cosmos.

A sharp intelligent seeing

through murky times;

with pre-ancient wisdom and timeless cosmic joke.


Experience ~


The Cailleach 

embodied as land,

mountain like Ben Cruachan,

whirlpool like Corryvreckan;

Old Hag;

Creatrix and re-shaper through Winter;

Her chthonic weather and hammer

breaking what needs to go 

tossing seeds into cold soil 

and apocalyptic heart.


Breakdown ~


Through her fierce eye, She

sees where we are out of alignment

knocking us back in again.


Realign ~


She, alignment, with Sovereignty,

is married by hollowed bone and wind breath with Earth

where the bounty of nature 

Herself is dowry;

where richness is currency more than money,

and a reminder of veiled ancestral belonging.


Be wed ~


To kiss the Cailleach,

the ugly and undesirable

you would not otherwise willingly kiss,

from whom we usually flee,

is to love keenly enough

an old story

through the Mystery

into previously unimaginable beauty.


Kiss Her ~ 


Good people, The Cailleach is here,

has called in our Wintertime.

We have called her up from unknown depths

to meet the end time dreaming.

It is time to transition,

to die to what has been.


Die to the old ways~


Protecting the wild hunt,

the deer,

the horned ones,

the cattle,

the yew tree,

She, Cailleach, lives sovereign with Earth life

that Spring may arrive

the culture renew

Earth Community thrive.


Give birth~





be wed

kiss Her

come home

die to the old ways

give birth to thriving Earth.



Wendy Robertson Fyfe

A Pheasant Procession


Walking round a lake 

at dusk with a sister shortly 

before the Cailleach awakens at Samhain,

The Lady still sleeps.

Golden leaves move everso slightly on muddy-bottomed waters

and enough light reaches yet for 

reflecting dell’s branches on autumn’s dreamy slow ripples.

Years of leaf composting under a yellow

passage provides a soft tread between 

passing roots and we smell 

sweet bark sap sticking between our fingers.


Rounding the curve just up 

beyond where the jagged and moss rock cliff  begins,

pheasants start appearing close 

before us on the winding path.

Before long a moving feathered strand

fills the way forward as far as we can see.

It’s as if we’re being led in a procession

and willingly following,

being slayed in every step by beauty and awe.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe