Here is the next episode of the adventures of ThunderWing, warrior eagle of the mountains of Mawha.

ThunderWing´s sense of exaltation was short-lived.

 A few days later, a strong young warrior appeared in the entrance of the cave without giving the customary cry of entry.

He was a little larger than ThunderWing, his plumage a rich combination of olive and metallic bronze, with black markings. Perfectly proportioned, he was considered the handsomest of all the warriors of his tribe. He was also the proudest and most arrogant, with the tongue, so it was said, of the serpent.

He stood there for a moment, beak held high, his very stance an insult.

ThunderWing glanced at him from his recumbent position and looked away again, not even bothering to greet his unwanted visitor. The Mawh’eyri code of civility was seldom practiced between bitter rivals, although the warrior´s code of honour was normally strictly adhered to.

‘Hail, Winglost ThunderWing, the broken, the fallen, the presumptuous fool!’ the visitor cried, mockingly. ‘Did you trip and fall upon your beak?’

Stony silence was all the answer he received. 

‘What is this?’ continued the sarcastic voice as he hovered over the wounded eagle.

‘Did the dark wind take your tongue also? Very well. If you would attempt the peak before your time, little eaglet, and awaken the evil wind in your blundering, it is little wonder that you lie naked and broken before me. You are a fool to even think of challenging me: NightFlyer, son of SwiftSlayer, lord of hunters, fairest and strongest of the warriors of the mountains!’

There was still no answer or even movement from his rival, so Night-Flyer prepared to leave.

‘So! It is fitting to keep respectful silence before me, featherlost little egg-chick, for I am destined to be both Mawharhipi and Windlord when the season of the hunt comes again. There shall be none to rival and cheat me of victory in the wing-trials then.’

He spread his wings wide and his voice filled the caves and thevalley.

‘I shall then conquer Mawharikhan, and claim SilverSong the Fair as my own! I shall be the lord of the mountains of Mawha!’

This was too much for ThunderWing to take. He roused himself to some semblance of dignity, spreading his ragged wings in challenge.

‘Will the fair SilverSong take you for nest-mate? I think not, O NightFlyer Wind-Beak, boaster of great boasts! Your very arrogance shall be as rotting meat in her nostrils.’

‘Oh, will you challenge me still, robeless one?’ sneered the other, turning back to face him. ‘Your loss upon the peak has not given you wisdom? She cannot resist NightFlyer the strong, fairest of warriors, greatest of hunters, Swiftest in the Mountains and Reigning Windlord-to-be. Do not forget that a Windlord who conquers the peak has the right to choose—nor you, nor even she can gainsay it. If she is unwilling, I shall take her by force, and not even StrongFeather, her father, can gainsay our laws, nor the will of Windlord NightFlyer Mawharhipi.’

Something exploded inside ThunderWing’s breast.

‘No!’

He hopped and hobbled over and stood beak to beak with his rival, his remaining feathers fully extended in fury.

‘You will have neither title, proud and cruel wind-beak boaster! Am I not ThunderWing Mawharhipi by right of victory? Have I not escaped the clutches of the Black Storm? And caused him to be banished from our mountains? And if you take the fair SilverSong by force, I shall call Mawharagh upon you!’

Such was NightFlyer’s astonishment at this challenge, he sat back upon his tail feathers. He threw his head back and laughed aloud.

‘Mawharagh?? Mawharagh between us? There are no bounds to your boasting, your folly, little quail! Look upon your image when you drink from the pools, little featherlost fool. Even had you the armor and the strength to do battle, by our laws you cannot challenge a champion warrior.’

It was seldom among the Mawh’eyri that such warrior rivalries ever ended in these terrible mountain duels to the death, the Mawharagh. The Windlords that presided over these disputes generally did their utmost to settle them peacefully. Occasionally, some warriors would contend by non-combative contest over the choicest eyrie or the fairest lady among the eagles.

No one, especially the eldest among them, ever wanted to return to the barbaric days when they first settled in the mountains. Eyrie had fought eyrie over territorial rights. Many fine eagles fell in battle until wisdom prevailed. Laws were agreed upon and then scratched on the Stones of Judgment upon Windlords’ Crag. Spontaneous squabbles

that turned to blood-letting were dealt with ruthlessly, both parties summarily expelled from the mountains for a season. If one was determined to be at fault (confirmed by the testimony of witnesses), he or she was sometimes banished forever. If the crime was considered by the Council to be worthy of death, the offender was set upon by designated warriors.

ThunderWing had to acknowledge the truth of NightFlyer’s response, and sank down in a despairing heap again.

A champion named Swiftest in the Mountains was held in such high honour—a Windlord even more so—that he was immune from any challenge of that kind by an inferior. It was law.

If NightFlyer won the racing trials that season, he would be considered a champion. If ThunderWing had his feathers and strength intact, and he still attacked NightFlyer for fair SilverSong’s sake, he would be cast out of the mountains forever, if not executed. What use would he be to the Fair One then?

‘Farewell, pathetic little raven-chick,’ jeered the serpent’s tongue.

He swung one of his wings, knocking ThunderWing to the floor, then laughed out loud again.

‘Grovel for worms if you must. I go to my destiny as Windlord and to claim SilverSong as my own.’

He filled the cave with his eyrie’s war-cry, and swept away into the distance.

The moons passed.

ThunderWing wearily and sadly watched from the cave’s entrance as the mountainsides slowly shed their white down of winter and clothed themselves with the green feathers of spring, tinged with the colours of the blossoms. He watched the lesser birds come and go in their endless hunting and gathering. He even befriended a pair of doves, sharing scraps of his meat with them.

The Mawh’eyri normally ignored lesser birds, though they protected them. That is, unless they became a nuisance.

He was healing rapidly, being exceptionally strong amongst the young warrior-eagles. He was gradually shedding or pulling out his older, damaged plumage, and beginning to grow new, stronger feathers. His shoulder was still tender, but it had been well treated by a skilled healer, and he could fly short distances. He had even begun to hunt and gather for himself again, to a limited extent.

He meditated much on the wise counsel his mother gave him on her frequent visits, and felt comforted by the honour in which he was held by the Mawh’eyri Windlords and his own eyrie. Yet all this honour was nothing to the loss of any chance of winning the eyreira who had become an obsession to him ever since she had returned from the Northern Mountains.

Without her, he had lost all motivation to strive for greatness. He felt he could do little else than serve the eyries as hunter and gatherer like his brother did, removing his warrior’s mark. At least that had some true honour in itself, little though it was regarded by tradition.

However, to his surprise, his mother still spoke of a future conquering of the great peak.

He just shook his head.

‘I am no longer as high of heart as my father, O my mother. I will join my brother in the hunts to serve the eyries, if he will. That is honour enough for one such as I.’

‘It is true that before greatness comes lowliness, even as a bird must swoop downward to soar the highest. Remember that the caves of the Great Summit Mawharikhan are clear of the great enemy because of your attempt. But also mark this: To soar the highest is indeed your destiny, my son. I have heard it on the voice of the Great Wind.’

He could only shake his head in sad disbelief.

His mother did not press him, but paid a visit to Windlord’s Crag and spoke privately to StrongFeather.

This resulted in a surprise visitor to Healing Cave.

Another excerpt from "Wings..." Chapter 2: In the Caves of Healing

‘I have failed. I should have listened to my brother’s counsel, and to yours, mother. I am not worthy to be HighSoarer’s son. I have brought dishonor to our eyrie.’

He hid his head under his shattered wing.
He was slowly regaining strength and plumage in Healing Cave. He was healing in body, but not
in soul. His mother and another Windlord, skilled in healing, were in attendance.

‘Already NightFlyer taunts me from the cave’s mouth,’ the broken eagle lamented, ‘saying I am fit only as servant-gatherer for the Mawh’eyri folk. And he speaks the truth. He shall win SilverSong as his own, and I shall live forever in shame. Why was I not left to die within Resting Cave,
or left as prey for black Mawharikhὺn?’

‘You have not forfeited your honour, my son, for you attempted the peak in spite of all,’ insisted LightWind reassuringly, smoothing and straightening his remaining feathers. ‘There are many young warriors that dared not.’

‘They dared not because they were not fools and failures, as I am,’ came the bitter reply. ‘I no longer have the will, nor strength and skill. Now my last hope to shine is blown away in the storms of despair!’

‘Your father also first failed,’ his mother calmly replied, ‘because he placed his confidence in his strength and skill rather than upon the great Wind-Spirit. Yet he held fast to his hope.’

‘He failed?’ ThunderWing lifted his head from under his wing in surprise. ‘I did not know this. And did not his failure bring him shame?’

‘He also was young and eager, and swore that he would win me as his nest-mate. He would not wait for counsel. He attempted times many. Mawharikhὺn slept, but your father was defeated by the first Wild Storms of the tempest season, those that do not heed the ambitions of our young warriors, nor the war waged by the Great White Winds. When the time of the blossoms came, he returned, but bowed to the counsel of a Windlord: WindVoice-of-Good-Counsel it was—and learned the ways of the great Wind-Spirit for many moons. Then he triumphed.’

ThunderWing was silent as he dwelt upon his mother’s words. It was the first time in a long while since he had listened to her, and gave thought to her counsel.

The Windlord-healer looked up from his task of applying special earth and herbs to the wounds.
He was WeatherWing the Wise, highly respected among the greatest of the Mawh’eyri, renowned as much for his skills in healing and gift of prophecy as he was for his skills of war. When he spoke, the Mawh’eyri listened.
‘Know also, ThunderWing, son of HighSoarer the Great: Your battle with Mawharikhὺn the Accursed is a lay that is sung in many eyries. For Windlord StrongFeather witnessed it from afar, fearful for your safety, but marvelled that you outwitted such a cunning and mighty foe for so long.’

The wise eagle flew over and settled in front of his patient to address him in the manner of a Windlord-messenger with momentous news.
‘Hear me now also, ThunderWing Mawharhipi! Your seeming rashness in your attempts in this last moon of the gathering season has served us all well. We, the Windlords had not foreseen it, but it came to pass that the first storm of the tempest season came earlier than before. This one had been sent by the great Spirit-Wind. It was Mawharhitan, the White Whirlwind of the mountains, amongst the greatest of the warrior-winds.
He came hunting the Black One on the mountain side, as it has often come to pass. But forever the demon-storm has escaped and hidden within his mountain. This time, you drew him forth away from
any chance to escape the wrath of the White Whirlwind. The pride of the black one defeated him, for his hunting skill was as the great black spiders of the rocks. He would leap from his lair, grasp, and retreat to his dark hole again. Even your father, the greatest of all Windlords in flight, came to grief at his hand, although he evaded capture. Mawharikhὺn has seldom failed to bring down his prey. Your skill and speed foiled him, and that he could not bear. In the folly of his pride, he followed you
long and far, then encountered Mawharhitan who overcame him before he could take you. Now he has been overthrown and is banished forever from the mountains of Mawha!’

ThunderWing gasped.

‘So you see, O my son, that you have brought honour to our eyrie, not shame!’ sang his mother, relaxing some of her poise to spread her fine wings in exaltation.

‘Honour indeed!’ continued the Windlord. ‘For this was the very matter before Windlords’ Council at your arrival. It was in debate amongst us that if a warrior storm was sent, some of us should try to bait Mawharikhὺn and draw him forth from his lair. But some of us would have perished in the attempt, perhaps even Windlord StormRider the Bold, who has outwitted many a Wild Storm-Spirit, and who offered to lure the enemy forth. You have saved us in your seeming rashness, and now the mountains shall be free of terror for many moons and many seasons. It was for this reason that we carried you here and tended your wounds. We ask that you come before Windlords’ Council when you are whole again, that we may offer you our thanks.’

ThunderWing was overwhelmed. He struggled to his feet and tried to bow before the Windlord, but staggered and fell again. His mother insisted that he stay lying down.

‘I am honoured with many honours, Windlord, fallen fool though I am,’ said ThunderWing. ‘I will come before the Council when I can, if you so bid me.’

Then he sighed and lowered his head to the earth again.
‘Yet even these honours are second in my sight to the right of choosing my own nest-mate. That is now denied me.’

‘Well, the law of the Mawh’eyri is not easily changed,’ acknowledged the Windlord regretfully. ‘But you have won much honour even without the title of Windlord. I counsel you to be content.’

The Windlord soon departed, and his mother soon left also, but not without leaving a gift of two fat hares.
‘…….. Caught for you by your brother, StrongHand, for he also holds you in honour, in brotherhood and in fellowship.’

Here's another excerpt from my new publication "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri."

Although he did not lack determination and persistence, Thunder-Wing found it far more difficult than he anticipated. The higher he flew, the thinner the air, and it became an intolerable burden to beat his wings.

In spite of the risks of awakening the demon-storm within the mountain, he rested on many crags on the way up. But each time he looked upward, his heart sank, for it seemed as though he was no nearer the summit than when he began.

Day after day, he doggedly strove upward, rested, then pushed upward again. At last, nightfall forced him to return to Resting Cave for the next day’s attempt. The designated supply of food was diminishing, but he ate little in any case so that he was not unduly weighed down.

One day he made it to the highest crag yet in all his attempts.
He rested a long while. His breath came in desperate gasps in the thinning air.
All of a sudden, he felt strange stirrings in the air. His mother had warned him about unfamiliar winds.
‘But I, ThunderWing Mawharhipi will outfly all strange winds!’ he panted defiantly.
Then he heard the unmistakable warning call of a Windlord from below.
‘Danger! Return to Resting Cave! Dark clouds come! Beware the tempests!’
He hesitated, for he could just see his goal, the Great Summit Mawharikhan, before it was wreathed in fast-moving clouds.
It was so close, he thought, almost within his grasp.
‘ThunderWing Mawharhipi will outfly any strange clouds!’ he declared defiantly.

Gathering all his courage, strength and skill, he leapt into the air once again, his eyes fixed on the great peak looming near. The air was so thin, he was breathing hard and fast, but he held on, unwavering.
So fixed was his gaze, he did not notice the huge, dark cave he was passing. It was like the menacing mouth of a great beast, with jagged teeth-like rocks at its entrance.

Suddenly, without warning, he was enveloped in howling darkness.
Mawharikhὺn had awakened!
It seemed as if the demon-wind had indeed watched for him, and waited for him within the mouth of his cave, as StrongFeather had warned him.

A thick black cloud in the shape of a gloating vulturine face turned towards him, crowned with whirlwind horns and eyes of balled lightning, glowing with hatred of all living things that defied him.
His monstrous, bat-like cloudy wings began to wrap around his prey.
ThunderWing knew he was doomed, for no eagle had ever out-flown the dreaded demon-lord of the peak and lived.
Huge black misty claws reached out to grasp the little eagle, and he cried out in fear.

Then he quickly remembered the maneuver that had saved him from attack by the warriors of the Wild Eagle raiders. (It had also given him the final advantage over NightFlyer in the race through
the valley.)
He quickly folded his wings and dropped like a stone, spreading wings again only to change course or add speed to his descent. The demon-wind, screaming in fury as he saw his prey slip through his fingers, turned and soared downward after him.

Desperately hoping to outrun the demon-storm and find shelter, ThunderWing dodged around boulders and crags, toward the mountain pass.
He had already expended too much strength that day to use his wings effectively, but he managed to avoid capture purely through his manoeuvrability, for which he was famed among his
fellow-warriors.

Nonetheless, his enemy knew the mountains too well to be outwitted for long.
Zooming around the opposite direction of one rocky outcrop, he almost had him as they collided on the other side.
A split second swerve only just saved ThunderWing from the enemy’s clutches.
But Mawharikhὺn was also a master of winds. He blew at his quarry with all his strength, loosening rocks and stirring up the air all around them.
A sudden updraft from this made ThunderWing lose balance. A sharp fragment of loosened stone flew at him, glancing him on the shoulder.
The pain of it caused him to cry out. But his courage rose whenever an impossibility challenged his resolve. He was, after all, the son of Windlord HighSoarer.
‘May the White Warriors take you, accursed demon! Slay me if you can!’

One wing was now almost useless. He dropped again. His enemy pursued, his dark breath preceding him. Another gust struck him like a body blow from a monstrous fist and threw him against the far cliff face of the mountain.
Feathers scattered as ThunderWing, dazed, plummeted toward a familiar valley where he saw Resting Cave. He had just enough feathers to break his fall, although the break in his left wing hurt terribly.

He lay in a dazed heap, but his ordeal was not over yet.
He heard a rumbling sound above him, so he struggled to his feet, expecting to feel cold, black fingers take him and crush the life out of him.

Although he heard howling and thundering above him, the final blow did not come.
Once again, the strange breezes he had ignored before blew around him.
Whirling white clouds gathered above. It grew darker still.
Thunder and lightning echoed around the valley and a torrent of rain came down, causing the cave entrance to teem with running water.

Screams, howls and roars filled the air. It seemed as if war was unleashed among the mountain peaks. It had often been said among the Eyri of the Central Mountains that the Wild Tempests would rage
against each other as they fought like wild beats for supremacy in the mountain passes.
Mawharikhὺn had always prevailed over the rest, being stronger and far too cunning.
ThunderWing had heard of the battles between the Wild Tempests in the mountains, but he had lived too far away to be concerned about them.
Perhaps the demon-storm would be too occupied to continue the chase. Perhaps he was safe at last.

Then he heard the rumbling again, but not the sound of moving air this time.
He looked up to see a large torrent of snow and rocks rapidly descending upon him, down the slope.
As a malicious parting blow, the demon-storm had unleashed an avalanche upon him.

Desperately, ThunderWing half flew and half staggered toward the entrance nearby. He only just made it inside as moments later, the cave filled with white snow-mist before the light faded completely.

He was safe for the moment, but that now meant nothing to him.
He gave a cry of despair.
‘I have lost all! My honour, my wing, my hope! Oh, if I had only been slain by black Mawharikhὺn!’

The roar of the tumult outside was now less than the roaring tumult inside his head, his labouring lungs, the hopelessness in his heart and the throbbing pain of his left wing.
He finally lost consciousness.

Watch this space for another episode of "Wings in the Wind."
Or get your FREE copy of the Kindle EBook by attending the Official Book Launch.

Excerpt from "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri." from Chapter 1: Mawharhikan

.....
It was not merely the height that daunted most eagles, but it was spoken in Windlords’ lore that the lord of all demon-storms, Mawharikhὺn slept within the mountain peak.
Prouder than the proudest eagle, he ruled the lands with fear. He rarely ventured forth in those days, partly for fear of the mighty servant-winds of the Great Spirit Wind, who hunted for him.
However, he hated the proud wingfolk of the mountains who would not acknowledge his lordship. It was said that High-Soarer, ThunderWing’s father, had fallen to his death after being struck by Mawharikhὺn in one of his rampages. ThunderWing still bore the grief from the day that the Windlord messenger brought the news of his death.

‘I defy you, evil Mawharikhὺn!’ he called fiercely as he watched a dark cloud sweep across the great peak. ‘You shall be humbled, though I fall in the attempt.’

His challenging call, similar to that of eagles about to do battle, echoed across the valley. As if in answer, a distant rumble emanated from within the great peak itself.

This distracted the Windlord Council, and they glanced in his direction.
The eldest of them spread his wings and flew across to his perch.
ThunderWing knew the old eagle well. He had a few bald patches and scars. His remaining feathers were rough, but he still flew strongly and held his head proudly. They bowed to each other and Thunder-Wing’s beak touched the rock before his senior in deep respect, for he stood before none other than StrongFeather, Father-of-Many, Lord of the Western Crags.
Not the least of his children was SilverSong the Fair.

‘Hail, ThunderWing Mawharhipi, son of HighSoarer! Your father was my greatest wingfellow, and we grieve at his fall.’

‘Hail, Windlord StrongFeather, Father-of-Many! You honour us in that you remember our father in great kindness. Do your eyries prosper? Do all your eaglets fly high and strong?’

The elder eagle gave a laughing hiss.
‘You are courteous! But in truth you ask only for the health and dwelling place of SilverSong, my daughter—this I know well. She thrives, but she presently sojourns upon the Northern Mountains where the singers-of-the-wind gather until the storm season comes. She teaches my eaglets in the ways of the Great Spirit-Wind’s song. But she often remembers you with kindness.’

ThunderWing hung his head in embarrassment for a moment, but then lifted it proudly.
‘It is true that I desire SilverSong the Fair as my nest-mate, Windlord StrongFeather. I seek to conquer the peak and so to win the right to choose her.’

StrongFeather shook out his neck feathers and settled back to stare piercingly for a moment at the younger one before him.
‘I hope that you have her favour in this, for I see the spirit of your father is in you. I would gladly give my daughter to such a one.’

The young eagle hung his head again, overcome with gratitude and gratification. But was this not his due, as a son of Windlord HighSoarer?
He lifted his head proudly, only to hear not so good news.

‘NightFlyer, son of SwiftSlayer came yestersun on the same errand,’ continued StrongFeather, still watching him closely. ‘But he contemned the traditions of the Mawh’eyri and spoke his desire before the Council were ready to hear him. He demanded his right for the trial of the peak. He was sent away until the changing of the moon as penalty for his disrespect.’

‘Then I have come not a moment too soon, Windlord!’

‘Yes, he rivals you in many things, and never forgave you for defeating him at the Mawharhipi trials. But still, he is one hunting season your senior. Are you not too young to attempt the Summit? The season of tempests draws near also.’

‘I am the Swiftest in the Mountains, Windlord,’ answered Thunder-Wing in barely-restrained impatience. ‘Does that not show I am ready for the attempts? By the wings of the moon, I swear that I will conquer the peak before the coming of the storms!’

StrongFeather tilted his head a little in doubt, but said, ‘Very well. Windlord Council has allowed for one attempt, and you are the last of this season to do so. NightFlyer must await the passing of the tempest season. Do you need guidance?’

‘I need no guidance, Windlord.’
ThunderWing was too impatient and too proud to delay the process any longer.

The elder eagle shook all his feathers and sighed.
‘You indeed follow the same flight as your father. All must rise or fall by their own wing-beat, it seems. Go then! I will warn you of this only: Beware of the black cave of the southern face. Do not rest upon the crags thereof, for it is manifest that Mawharikhὺn is stirring again, and comes
forth at night to terrify the eyrie-folk of these mountains at times. Fear and terror is as his meat and drink. Yet he hides again in his caves here for fear of the good White Wind Warriors, Servants of the Great Spirit-Wind. Be vigilant, for that demon-storm may be on the watch for us.
You must return before sun’s rest, or you are easy prey to night-eyes of the evil one. It is not as easy to attempt the peak as it was in the days of my youth. There has not been any Reigning Windlord for many hunting seasons.’

He paused, waiting for a response. But since these warnings also did not seem to daunt the young eagle, the Windlord turned to more everyday practicalities.
‘There is fresh-killed prey and a water stream at need within Resting Cave, near the mountain’s pass. A Windlord shall watch from afar to judge your progress and witness your success, if indeed you do
succeed.’
He lifted up his voice in a Windlord’s song to the great Spirit-Wind.
‘Go, young warrior! May the great Wind-Spirit bear you upward!’

ThunderWing bowed again and leapt off the ledge, his wings spread wide, his eyrie’s war-cry on his tongue.

To read more of this story, visit the product page on Amazon.com 
Comments and queries welcome.

"Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri."

Now available on Amazon!

Printed version also available on request.

My Tribute to Jean Denehy

It's very difficult to keep to topic with these posts, especially when a sad event occurs, like the passing of Jean Denehy -- a most loved soul.
I was asked to do a tribute at her funeral, which I did in the form of verse.
Her daughter gave me permission to publish it.

My Tribute to Jean Denehy

Jean Biss, she came across the sea, a sweet and virtuous young KiWee,

To see the world, adventure seek, wild oats sowing, so to speak.
She suddenly came face to face to a dashing world war ace.
The rest, they say is history but left an awesome legacy.

Her tale with laughter and with tears I'll tell you now of bygone years.
The kindest Mum-­in-­Law was she, and Doug, too, did so much for me.
The greatest gift to give a man is a daughter like my Anne.

One thing that I admired so much was how she used the artist's touch
And style in ev'ry undertaking -- even things like compost-­making.
Her artist's studio cum cuisine displayed such wonders seldom seen.
Her canvas was the dinner plate where carv'd chooks tastef'lly met their fate.
Her pallet was the frying pan or pots of mashed spuds peeled by Anne.
She'd place precisely ev'ry bean -- 'twould make the great Picasso green!
With graceful Knife-­strokes she did slice Doug's buttered toast: ­­ a masterpiece!

Now greatness is a curious thing, a theme of which we often sing.
A source of great hilarity, this thing called popularity.
Celebrities would strut their stuff and then they'd go off in a huff.
Their fans have gone to next­-door's show that sing their hits from years ago.

But Jean found greatness in God's grace. That sweet smile never left her face.
Through hardships, trials she'd ne'er complain: "Just look to God!" was her refrain.
Her attitude put me to shame, inspiring me to do the same.
Her gentle heart, her constancy, her kindness and integrity,
Her patient labours seldom seen, her faithful prayers from morn to e'en,
Her open house, her open arms, her faith-­filled words --­­ the kind that calms.

For great names rise and often fall, but Jean was always loved by all.
In heaven all will hear her story -- the real one in it's shining glory;
And Him she loved the most will stand and take her proudly by the hand
Saying: "Of My Kingdom not the least. Well done, good handmaid, join my feast!"

New publication: "Wings in the Wind"

I've let my good habits slip, and I haven't posted for a while.
I'm also going to change my focus for the moment, and centre it around my publications.
I will include some excerpts and other sub-plots, off-shoots of the main story.

This is a short synopsis of my next publication called "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri":

ThunderWing was a young warrior-eagle, a champion among the Great Eagles, the Mawh’eyri, who dwelt in the Mountains of the fair and ancient land of Mawha,.

His ambition was to fly over Mawharikhan, the almost-impossible peak of the Great Mountain, evading the great demon-storm that lived there, and thus win the title of WindLord. This would also give him the privilege of taking SilverSong, a beautiful eagle-maiden, as his nest-mate. He was impetuous and impatient, hoping to forestall his rival, NightFlyer, who had the same ambitions.

But the road to greatness is far more difficult and eventful than his proud heart anticipated. 

Does he succeed?
Watch this space.