NEW RELEASE- Wilderness, stunning debut album, by Pilgrims

a sound born in a storm. this is what happened when a bird fell from the sky and foxes followed us home. this is supernatural, homespun honesty. this is soup, at 4am. this is a map of the stars that trace our fate. this is paprika tea. this is animal instinct. this is our story. our music.

this is the sound that came from a gorge . this is what happened when lovers cut each others hair with a samurai sword. this is inside out and up ‘n’ down. this humble creation from this hibernation. baring and purging. this is defining heroes. this is katsu curry & fermented pears. this could be winter. these are our scars. this is our music.

this is the chaos of living with panthers in a house by the sea, where ravens share their secrets with those who speak their language. this is our allegiance to our ancestors and the salt in our Bourbon. two years of travelling around the sun, we are finally home…



© all rights reserved




“soon….. x” he wrote.

“soon….. x”


[Oh the unquantifiable wait.
the undeniable weight.
oh the irrefutable beauty
of monosyllabic

four letters. infinite variables. one critical
sum, happening in my head… quicker than
i can convey verbally
and i can be verbose.

soon = absolute x.

i was good at math
but you know that
don’t you?]



(c) Kat McDonald 2016



the stains of holy water

it is time...

there is another world, down there, beneath
the surface and superfluous;
a world i spoil for,
to revisit time and again,
a world i crave.
it is a beautiful world;
when stripped
of the binding and bondage
of the humdrum
and the crowded mundane.
a vast expanse of golden desert,
where the mouth, dry with thirst,
seeks quenching;
where the temporal
and lumbosacral
dissolve, drenched
from fire and furnace
of desire;
where limbs become molten
and weak.
i seek
one sip from
that fountain.
it is a beautiful escape,
a flank of desert dunes
that shift
with each breath.

i want to lose myself
and all sense of time
and purpose
in this space
and feel the land
slide and arc
beneath me
as i fumble;
because here i could stumble,
for days
circling, crazed by
a thirsty daze.
i long to feel its silken sands
pass through my hands
and taste the salt
on parched lips.

it is time
to disappear from this world
and to make my
ephemeral pilgrimage
to this altar; to exalt
until exhausted,
to pray, idolatrous,
’til consciousness
is lost
amid the stars and the attars,
the incense and
the stains of holy water.
i have time to devote there,
are you ready, my love?

image (c) Kat McDonald Photography
words (c) Kat McDonald 2016

+ it is time, Robert…  are you coming?




innocent and
blind as a newborn,
the lovers swim out, out, out
out into the deepest ocean
the lovers swim
and leave the shore,
oh these fearless lovers,
feet do not touch the ground


cradled in
the solace
of darkest waters
the lovers dive down, down, down
to a world without sound
the lovers chase the horses
in brine, entwined
oh these fearless lovers,
cut and kick
with grace,
feet do not touch the ground

and they come…

they come
to destroy angels
they come
to tear apart
they come
in constant rhythm
they come
to hunt in packs
they come
to drown the lovers
they come
to make a splash
they come
to seek attention
they come
they gatecrash

it’s personal
they come
here they come,

(c) Kat McDonald

you have NO idea!



the bodies furl
around and
the sleeping limbs,
and the sleeping hands.
she, with midnight eyes,
stirs and curls
her body round
his back.
those eyes close,
yet the fingers find
the sweet nut and crack.

then i feel
her hand…
i stir and rest there.

he too stirs and turns;
the skies of his eyes
darken with night.
yet, he sips a kiss
from the fingerprints
of her sleeping left hand.
they move
together slowly,
like dancers,
dancing through
time and consciousness;
never breaking contact.

hours slip;
perfect silence
but for the breathing,
and the nuzzling.

it is the quietest dawn,
as birdsong falls
upon sleeping drum;
no bugle call
or pealing bell
only the blush
of a brush
of lip over hip.

words, drift;
murmured, in
a circle of breath;
they smudge the skin,
and burrow within.
four fleeting kisses
grace her shoulder;
she places his hand
between the smouldering
grip and smelt,
to hold fast
the love there.

i feel awake,
but not forsaken.
i stretch out
and wait…


(c) Kat McDonald 2014

*apologies, i cannot find the source of this beautiful image to credit*

karma sutra

this crushing pain,
on my chest,
is love.

the world spins.
and spin she does
with faithful and fateful

hateful in her headstrong determination;
she overlooks,
with flippancy
and nonchalance,
the rocks she throws off
that hit, every time,
with insidious precision.

cold, callous, calculated –
they hit.
they break.
they destroy.
but she doesn’t care.
why should she?
she has no heart.
she is made of stone,
she is stoning.

the body, bruised.
the mind, splintered.

i watch,
from within
and outwith,
her relentless trajectory.
with every sunrise
she brings chaos,

what to do
except be there;
to repair the broken threads,
to rebuild the crumbling walls,
to love,
to touch,
to listen?

and i listen.
i listen hard.

my ears, and heart,
to hear her
and rationale.
my fuse is short;
my trajectory, shorter.

she spins
in a wake of emotional carnage
i watch
as his boat struggles –
amid the flood of her Charybdis –
to remain afloat;
breaking apart.

it breaks the heart.

oh this ache.
this yearning –
borne of unsurmountable frustration –
drives harder.
there is no rhyme
nor reason;
no rosy hue in her rationale.

all is monochrome.

fighting fire
with fire,
i am immovable.
i will not bow to her.
i will not watch her seek and destroy,
or play him like a toy.
this lioness heart,
fiercely protective,
will savage;
ravage the bare bones
of her causal agent.
i am immune
to her disease.

she is sick.

this crushing pain,
on my chest,
is love.

love will prevail,
nurture and protect.
l’amour est un cas de force majeure.

(c) Kat McDonald 2014

for Robert Davidson, my heart and my home.

“The snow goose need not bathe to make itself white. Neither need you do anything but be yourself.” Lao Tzu.


night light


wild eyes
– eyes that fight
fire with fire
and puncture
this heart
with desire.
wild, wild eyes
– sharp,
as surgeon’s knife,
cut to the soul.
in their infinite focus,
fiercely protective.
wide eyes
– so calm and pacific,
murmuring unspokens.
wide eyes that yield
a haven
– to feel safe in –
safe from the storms
of this vortex mind
and its contaminations.
wise eyes,
eyes that cut
through the murk
and the mire
– that dampen,
and strangle like wire.
[Oh bright eyes…
how you illuminate me!]
bright eyes
– brilliant, backlit
and blue;
most beautiful
eyes that see through
any self-imposed maze
of self-doubt.
[thank you, bright eyes
-for all that you are, and
know that you are…]
– a night light for this child,
– a hearth in the wild,
– my wilderness,
– my fuel,
– my fire,
– my inspired.

image & words (c) Kat McDonald 2014