The Frewyn Music Project

In the last few months, I've had my hands in many literary pies: The compilation of Myndil the Missionary stories was published from Pendelhaven Press, another Myndil book is currently being written, Martje's cookery book is coming along, and I've been writing several songs for the Frewyn Music Project, a collaboration with songwriter and musician Noah Tolhurst (Stillbuster). I have been considering an album of Frewyn songs for a while, but it was Noah's darling wife who had the genius idea of putting us together in a room with bodhrans and mandolins. My books have many songs, like The Creature of the Deep and the Merrow in the Barrow, but due to the Tolhurst enthusiasm, I've been more keen to put down more. I have no idea when the album will be out, but here is something to tide you over, a song about our Frewyn friend Mad Queen Maeve:

The Ballad of Mad Queen Maeve

The apples in winter don’t fall from the bough

They cling to the autumn without knowing how

They linger in the frost and rot upon tree

Those under Mad Maeve’s reign will one day go free

The grass in late autumn is covered by the snow

And how it survives the winter nobody knows

The snowdrops and violets grow out of frozen dew

And the berries are taken from the bold mountain yew

The rush in the meadow leans into the breeze

The wheat stalk and corn husk surrender to the freeze

The cedar and cypress will never fully yield

To Mad Maeve’s battalions as they march across the field

The whitethorn in Westren rests upon the hill

And the lilies in Tyr Bryn still grow around the mill

The heathpea in the Highlands still bloom without a care

For Queen Maeve’s madness cannot reach them there

The farmfolk go hungry so the children can eat

The cerns and the captains are not given meat

To swallow rebellion and silence all dissent

Mad Maeve holds the kingdom in private contempt

The rose in the garden is witness to the spring

The rime melts and warmth comes on wren’s open wing

The thrush and the blackbird nest in feverfew

And Maeve’s crown lies broken in the mid-morning dew

The cerns and the captains line the banks of the firth

The farmfolk sit listening by the mantle and the hearth

A new king arises and turns dross to gold

The new age of plenty returns wheat to wold