Turquoise is one of the world’s most ancient gems, Egyptians, Tibetans, Aztecs, Southwestern Native tribes have all coveted it. It is a stone that is stepped in history. Still today, it exudes it power from its pale blue pores - Turquoise - the creative & spiritual lifter. Promotes outside the boxing thinking whilst, stimulating a path to a higher consciousness and giving the immune system a boost of love.
A stone I have collected and gifted my whole life. Embrace the turquoise . I only bought 3 pieces on a recent trip to Bhutan, when they're gone, they're gone. This piece is all about the stone. Reluctantly drilled for a sterling silver wire to hoop through - chain ready.
The best way to clean turquoise is with warm, sudsy water and a soft brush. It is important to dry it immediately with a cloth.
From our AW19 collection: The Moon and The Yew Tree
Inspired by the Sylvia Plath's poem:
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky — Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness – The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.