Age, in Anglo-Saxon Protestant women and men, stereotypically suggests conservatism as chauvinism, cowardice disguised as belligerence, intolerance in veiled response of guarded impotence, prejudice in painful imbecility, all encouraged and promoted in the authoritarian myth of white supremacy. Even, however, upon distanced unbiased observation, intent not to identify, but to glimpse within the mystery, a reality self-conceived, age predisposes, discloses nothing, other than this…

Beneath how many new moons, in how many places, have I contemplated the months in store; and, mesmerised at their fullness, again, all over the world, how many moons have been gazed upon in reverie. How many sunrises, sunsets. How many miles have I travelled. Into how many faces have I gazed; into how many eyes, enquiring, transfixed – colours honoured, remembered; souls felt, revered. How profound has been my sorrow, how exultant my joy. How many scars have I, both of body and of heart. How much regret; how much gratitude. How often have I needed help; how often have I asked for it. How much art have I stood before in wonder. How much poetry have I read – blood that is mine but that I have never known. How many tears have I cried, brought to weeping by a lyric, a chord. Ask me, how many words have I written, how many have I yet to write. That is how old I am. That is my age.

I do not care what you know ’til I know that you care. You do not know me. Nor do I care. Solitary, I cannot be defined by any nationality, by any affiliation, by any organisation, by any gender, by any preference. This is not a confession. I am guilty of nothing. Though I like tight places, I have never been – owing to fear – unwilling to reveal, to confess my truth, appearing as I am, being as I appear. I venture here, not out, but beyond. Having disembroiled myself from the ravelled, choking maze of caution, this is I, an I who mine is, for the courage no other to be, if not danger’s self.

All that you see in your blindness is false. From me, expect from eyes of slate blue, layers, dense, enduring, penetrating; edges, sharp, cutting, wounding; my heart, fearless, stronger than my hands, more resolute than your persuasion. At best, a poet; at worst, magus. Your angel, or your curse.

White is not always light; black is not always dark. Arcane Brythonic Cymric Celtic pagan, unapologetic, unepitomised.

Beware how you count me. Not amongst you. Not for you. Not with you. Count me only as one. Alone.