Moontree: The Art of Healing

Welcome to the Moontree website.

Moontree is:

Deborah Robinson - Artist/Printmaker, Reiki Master and Craniosacral Therapist

David Robinson - Artist/Printmaker, Photographer and Poet

Benjamin Robinson - Shamanic Practitioner and Reiki Master

(Please note: Benjamin is now based in Bristol. He is available for consultation in Bristol, London and the Hampshire/Dorset area)

Exhibitions - Workshops - Talks - Therapies

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  • Barton Cliffs

    Barton Cliffs

    the sky is ripped

    in tatters

    flapping wet

    bare-knuckle fists of air

    pummel the cliff



    it will not turn the other cheek

    the sea heaves

    old pewter

    scored with white scar-tissue

    scabs open and reopen

    seethe and hiss

    the wind reeling

    punch drunk

    howling insults at the absent moon

    rubbing salt

    into the wounds

    here on the path is no straight line

    the wind distorts


    head down

    you scrabble sideways

    a crab in undertow

    rain stings like flung gravel

    the whole horizon

    has been erased

    or else

    folded up

    into the clouds


    (January/February 2014)


  • Rain


    (written a while ago, but quite appropriate at the moment)

    Incessant rain, falling like clichéd tears.

    Is there such sorrow in these heavy clouds
    That short, dark winter days cannot contain
    A sad and selfish ecstasy of weeping
    That tries our patience and our sympathy?

    What should we do with such lamentation?
    It overflows the saturated fields
    And fills strange lakes in our familiar lanes.

    February drags tired metaphors
    And worn out, faded similes towards
    The tenuous promise of a rainbow,
    That would be wholly unbelievable
    If not for Imbolc's unexpected flowers.


  • Brighid Rising

    Brighid Rising

    (a song/chant for Imbolc)

    O Great Mother, hear our prayer
    That after darkness, light may come.
    From a thousand ages, still our prayer
    That after winter, spring may come.

    These weary weeks since Samhaine past,
    The Holly King in his hollow hall
    Has kept these northern lands in thrall,
    His iron gauntlet grips us fast.
    Gentle Mother, this we pray
    That out of night shall come the day.

    Through dreary dark and clinging cold
    The Oak King sleeps in his silent glade,
    Dreaming of birdsong in the shade
    Where he his Beltaine love will hold.
    Gentle Mother, this we sing
    Bring us safe into the Spring.

    As white as lace, as light as air,
    Through tangled press of root and clay,
    Brighid rises up into the day,
    Crowned with snowdrops in her hair.
    Gentle Mother, from the night,
    Lead us safe into the light.

    Flower of hope, white Queen of Spring,
    One falling snowflake from the storm
    The Angel's gentle breath transformed,
    Your beauty shakes the Winter King.
    This in earnest, Eve, to thee,
    That sun and summer soon shall be.

    Gentle Mother, this our prayer,
    Deliver us from cold and care.
    Gentle Mother set us free
    That sun and summer soon shall be.

    O Great Mother, hear our prayer
    That after darkness, light may come.
    From a thousand ages, still our prayer
    That after winter, spring shall come.


    For Imbolc, February 2014


    Samhaine Song

    We sit here tonight
    At one more year’s turning,
    We hold our friends close
    In the darkness returning.

    Samhaine is here
    And the great wheel is turning.
    The apples are gathered,
    The leaves are all scattered,
    The bonfires are burning.
    Samhaine is here again,
    Samhaine is here.

    Inside there’s laughter
    And firelight and candle-glow.
    Outside is the night
    And the rain on the window.

    (Repeat refrain)

    The grain's in the barns
    But the Wild Hunt is running.
    The apples are sweet
    But the sharp frost is coming.

    (Repeat refrain)

    The Lord of the wood
    In the Shadowlands, waiting,
    Like seeds in the earth
    For the new light's awaking.

    (Repeat refrain)

    The Lady, the Crone,
    By her cauldron is spinning
    The thread of our lives
    Through all ends and beginnings.

    (Repeat refrain)

    So set a spare place
    For the old ones returning,
    As we sit here tonight
    At one more year's turning.
    As we sing here tonight
    In the darkness returning.

    (Repeat refrain)

  • National Poetry Day


    Down by the white noise of the river
    I took my palette and my brush. I thought
    To paint my words upon the water.

    But the current took the lost calligraphy
    And shook it in its headlong, feral jaws,
    Worried it amongst pebbles in deep pools
    Between the grey and lichened rocks,
    Then drowned its voice with roaring.

    So I took my knife to score the idle breeze,
    Cutting quick characters with rapid strokes,
    Skin deep. A scar-tissue of graffiti.

    But the year turned and the wind awoke.
    The words were caught up in flying leaves,
    Dispersed, and scattered on the ground.

    So I took my chisel and my hammer
    To engrave the words that I had dreamed.
    I carved into the surface of the sea,

    But the lines were swallowed by the undertow
    As fast as I could swing and strike the blade,
    Sucked down past tiny, spiralled pearls of air
    To coral, shipwrecked and transformed.

    So, there is no remedy but to shout,
    Regardless, at the patient, open sky,
    Where thoughts give birth to flocks of birds.

    A murder of crows, a cloud of starlings,
    A bevy of larks swoop and wheel and write
    Kaleidoscopic verses on the air.

    As ephemeral as music,
    As fickle and as fleeting as a dream.

    DJR Sept/Oct 2013