This collection provides a glimpse of the beauty, of the serene landscape of Lemuria.

Water Fantasy by Linda Plaisted

Lemurian Rain

Rain pelting hard
Upon the windows
Upon the doors
Upon the roof
Driving in sheets
Lashing the trees
Running in rivulets
Down the green stems
Down the brown bark
Down onto the grass
Pelting, driving, pounding
It comes in waves
Loud and insistent
Softly pausing, the silence of expectation
Fresh aromas waft now
Through the open window
Pungent and cool, mixed with grass Mixed with lemon
Mixed with life

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The Lemurian Collection of Pauline Nolan

All day long the door to the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat....
Walter De La Mare, Behold, this Dreamer! 1939

Nectar of the Gods
Pink, the shell is pink and the floors and walls shimmer with the beauty of it. Curling softly in spirals the corridors wind up and down and sideways too. I stand in the foyer of the great shell temple. It is large and cool. A space to pause and wonder. On each side of me are fountains, sheets of water slipping down the walls and lit by holes the size of pin pricks to the outside, simulating the stars. Here is Orion, here Andromeda, all of them are there in this magical place. I bow to the altar as is the custom and lay my offering there. A simple basket, woven by my own hands and filled with natural things. Rocks smoothed by the river, bay leaves for scent and a lock of hair. These things are required, and I have bathed before I came.

As the basket leaves my hands to rest upon the marble table, carved with stories of the gods, the flute starts to play. Perhaps Pan will see me, perhaps Dionysus will speak, my heat beats faster in anticipation.

The stairs going upwards are smooth and surprisingly soft, but my breath comes faster now. I am frightened, despite being invited. At the top is a door of sorts. It looks like glass and moves in rhythmic patterns, moves with the sounds of the flute. A force field. Well, I had been prepared for this. The old woman in our village told me. She is 110. The oldest person I know. I was hoping she was right when she said she had been here herself, several times. I was hoping the password remained the same. .. Great Pan, who makes the hearts of writers glad and Dionysus who protects us, grant me entry to speak with you... and then I whispered the secret word, that I cannot even report here for you. You have to see the old woman yourself. That is the way it is decreed to be.

The field wavered and parted for me. I stepped in to see two beings of great stature, sitting on the golden cushions laughing and playing music. Pan lifted an eyebrow and I was bidden to come closer. I had so many things to ask but was silenced. A hand directed me towards a polished bowl in which I was to look. And there it was. My answer. It seemed to be engraved but as soon as I had read the words it disappeared. But I remembered as if it were seared into my brain: If you are confident of your direction others will appear to help you along the way - you are not alone.

And so, although I have no memory of leaving the beautiful shell, nor even any moment or expression on the faces of the gods from that point, I carry with me these words. These words to guide my life.


A soft shaft of sunlight splashed across the dresser enlivening the deep red of an earring. It lay on the lacey cover that wove in intricate white patterns, formed long ago by one of the women of the house, though no one could remember who. The light beam also hit a crystal bowl spreading into rainbows on the dark polished wood and sprinkling coloured spots across the mirror. Lying lazily inside their crystal bed were silver chains a little twisted around an emblem here and a jewel there, a brooch in the shape of a four leaved clover sparkled with laughter. It was grandma's, though again it probably came from an older layer of the family tree originally. Tiny perfume bottles of delicate tinted glass danced together with golden trim, the hint of the east about them, their shadows rippling like a baby's sigh whenever the curtain ruffled in the breeze. The earring had a twin, unlike some others in the collection, torn from their partners when a sleeve caught them and flung one onto the ground, to be picked up by an unrelated person, or turned over and over on the ear between finger and thumb, until they simply dropped to the earth. Like the seeds of fragrant bushes, hoping to sprout a jewelled tree. The garnets arrayed in a square, the marquesites inside that, silver grey framed by blood red and backed with gold. A copy of some Etruscan design, resting peacefully upon the lace, upon the curling dark grain of walnut surrounded by light and perfume, waiting to alight onto the tender ears of a lady. Waiting to whirl around the dance floor, sparkle in the candlelight of dinner and enhance the rosey lips of a lover.

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