Tuesday 12 February 2019

Mabon

The tumbled beech nuts form a scatter,
Lay strewn across their Autumnal bed.
Amid the trees, the Wiccan wanders -
We watch like sentries as she muses and ponders -
Framed by whispering leaves of amber and red.

Her coven emerges, like faeries and sprites,
Post-modern shadows of dryads and wights,
They gather, in circle, upon the old tomb -
This ancient reflection of Earth Mother's womb -
On a day that brings balance between dark and light.

A brief flow of mizzle causes beech leaves to quiver,
The Equinox breeze causes Druids to shiver,
A sputtering flame, on charcoal to feed -
A rich slice of apple, a fine horn of mead -
A plea to the Old Gods, to hark and come hither!

A gift to the compass points, Earth Air and Fire
And West brings us Water, wet the old chieftain's byre,
As above, so below, the Mysteries are kept -
In our magical circle, on which Heavens have wept,
The breeze lifts our voices, raising them higher.

A blessing upon those who call themselves Bard,
A blessing on those whom the old ways keep guard,
Upon the old tump, o'er which centuries have groaned -
For which Watches are held, and Elements atoned -
Through sunfire's glare, and earth torn and marred.

Now spent, we disperse, through the light playful rain,
And next time at Yule, the chance may come again,
To rebuild the circle at Coldrum's sharp frost -
To revive the Mysteries and the old Chieftain's ghost -
And take up the Old Lore for spiritual gain.


(...for NRE, the girl with the darkest eyes and the brightest soul.)