Kintala Wreath.jpg

Wreath making has become such a special creative out let for me. 

As with all the seasons, i'll be outside (at any given opportunity) foraging the landscape, and I feel so lucky that I get to combine that love of nature, and being outside with my work. it is the main reason I got into floral design and herbal healing. To reconnect with the plants, the animals,the seasons, 'myself,' always searching for ways to create with natures gifts, to get to know them better.

To 're-wild'. 

Winter wreath making time takes it one step further.

As you will have probably guessed by now , Andrew and I love working with the seasons...the turning wheel of the year... the wreath is such a beautiful symbol for this.

It forces you to look that little bit harder, to pay closer attention. To keep your eyes wide open to all possibilities. For me it's one of the most special mediums for floral design because you can create a masterpiece completely from nature. You are gifted with all you need. No metal grids or containers necessary, no need to even go back inside! 

Making a wreath forces you to keep your eyes wide open. It wakes you up.! Everything becomes a possibility...

 Turning what is usually considered a 'dead' 'dormant' 'dark' time of year into endless possibilties for creation. Bringing the dead back to life. Literally. 

Everthing in nature suddenly becomes a potential, a glittering decoration. A gift for us to learn and remember.

This year all of my wreaths are spinning around and around to this magical and profound poem by Tom Hirons. 

I can't get it out of my head and I hope you will read to the end. I also hope it will inspire you to get yourself outside, run around, open your eyes, get muddy! Wreath in one hand and your wild god holding the other. 

Much love and happy wreath making.

- Kelly-Marie xx


Sometimes A Wild God

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. 

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of Porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. 

His voice makes vinegar from wine. 

When the wild god arrives at the door, 

You will probably fear him. 

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt, 

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared. 

He will not ring the doorbell; 

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork, 

Though primroses grow

In circles around his feet. 

You do not want to let him in. 

You are very busy. 

It is late, or early, and besides...

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks.

The wild god smiles, 

Holds out his hand. 

The dog licks his wounds

And leads him inside. 

The wild god stands in your kitchen. 

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle. 

'I haven't much,' you say

And give him the worst of your food. 

He sits at the table bleeding. 

He coughs up foxes. 

There are otters in his eyes. 

When your wife calls downs, 

You close the door and

Tell her it's fine. 

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table. 

The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him, 

Then a glass for yourself. 

Three snakes are beginning to nest

In your voice box. You cough. 

Oh, limitless space. 

Oh, eternal mystery

Oh, endless cycle of death and birth. 

Oh, miracle of life. 

Oh, the wondrous dance of it all. 

You cough again, 

Expectorate the snakes and

Water down the whiskey, 

Wondering how you got so old

And where your passion went. 

The wild god reaches into his bag

Made of moles and nightingale-skin. 

He pulls out a two-reeded pipe, 

Raises an eyebrow

And all the birds begin to sing. 

The fox leaps into your eyes. 

Otters rush from the darkness. 

The snakes pour through your body. 

Your dog howls and upstairs

Your wife both exults and weeps at once. 

The wild god dances with your dog. 

You dance wth the sparrows. 

A white stag pulls up a stool

And bellows hymns to enchantments. 

A pelican leaps from chair to chair. 

In the distance warriors pour from their tombs. 

Ancient gold grows like grass in fields. 

Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs. 

The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness and pain. 

In the middle of the dance, 

The house takes off from the ground. 

Clouds climb through the windows;

Lightning pounds its fists on the table. 

The moon leans in through the window. 

The wild god points to your side. 

You are bleeding heavily. 

You have been bleeding for a long time, 

Possibly since you were born. 

There is a bear in your wound. 

'Why did you leave me to die?'

Asks the wild god and you say: 

'I was busy surviving.

The shops were all closed;

I didn't know how. 

I'm sorry.'

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and

The snakes in your arms and

The wren and the sparrow and the deer....

The great un-nameable beasts

In your liver and your kidneys

and your heart...

There is  a symphony of howling.

A cacophony of dissent. 

The wild god nods his head and

You wake on the floor holding a knife, 

A bottle and a handful of black fur. 

The dog is asleep on the table. 

Your wife is stirring, far above. 

Your cheeks are wet with tears;

Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting. 

A black bear is sitting by the fire. 

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. 

he is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, or fork and mustard and silver. 

His voice makes vinegar from wine

And brings the dead to life. 

A poem by the wonderful TOM HIRONS