Blue moon - Smith & Sun
Blue moon - Smith & Sun
Blue moon - Smith & Sun
Blue moon - Smith & Sun

Blue moon


The light is blue I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering. Blue and mystical over the face of the stars


Though blue is often associated with clarity or purity, in Plath's poem it is just pretty cold and remote.  With this in mind, we choose a Kyanite - rough and cool to touch, but it's a master of transition and clearing of negativity - a good balance for Plath. 

It is an air element, typically associated with; Aries, Taurus and Libra.  A great talisman for public speaking (stimulating the throat chakra) and for working on being more honest with yourself and others.  These duracell bunnies don't really need much charging. In fact, they're pretty good at boosting any other crystals you have. But, they certainly appreciate a good smudge now and then.

The Kyanite crystal is encased in sterling silver  - Silver/Moon, it makes sense (femininity, purity, transparence, coldness, fertility…) More recently, Nasa scientists have discovered that the surface of the Moon does actually contain deposits of the precious metal so have a slice of the blue silvery moon...


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.