The Caves – a poem

There are no boundaries here.  The tide rises
to permeate these caves and I welcome the drowning,
like mountain honey on a starved tongue.

Salted ocean is a cold and wet woman, awake
to the billions of stars in her waters. She:
an expanse, cosmic and unknowable, charged
with the holding of things,
people, memory. I breathe her in
like a ship resigned to wreckage
and revealed treasure.

There are no boundaries with Her.
When the cave is full I can see
through time, like the cuckoo who eats by the sun
but calls out in the night, everything is
attainable.

Below, I see the distant glow of Atlantis.
High above, I see Her hellbent on erosion
reaching for and crashing against cliffs.
And there, on the rocks – the lamb of God-
dess

Brigantia, Laima, Hera –        No. My own Mother;
divine and dressed, as she always is, in black and white;
planting flowers, as she always is, in her garden by the water.

There are no boundaries here. The tide rises
to permeate these caves and I welcome my drowning
with offerings of honeysuckle and violets.

I don’t believe in death or in poison.

There is
only Her, only the tide. The cosmic mother,
my own mother, memory.

The infinite.

A Wild Hymn – a poem

a wild hymn 

Their footprints gather around the stone. 

The ancient birthburial ground. 

The place hidden among the lindens.  

It’s as if I can see them here, women in the woodland;

knelt in prayer, anointed, weaving, drumming

through the centuries. 

Maybe                I’ve been here before. 

Maybe                this is from some other time, 

                            some other body. 

Maybe                here I made my plea 

                            to the woman in the linden tree

               

           And she answered. 

She sent out silken soldiers, retrieved my wishes,

 and has returned for me

lifetimes later, to my new body and says

“Come.”

Dark                     Light

Mother                 Lover

                Queen 

I’m back in time, surrounded 

by ancient women and from their goddess’s forest

arose a wild hymn.

It thrills me, opens up my bones like husks

and I’m with her. 

Branches grow from my shoulders, adorned

with emerald leaves, bright berries.

My skin is bark. 

My face, smoothed wood. 

Ancestors. Only as strong as their memories known. 

I stand in their long-eroded footprints around the stone. 

Flow of Awen – a poem

In the depths of the green, a light shines through.
Soft, at first, but carrying a kind of terror too.
A glimpse is all I can handle. It rattles me;
bones and blood and hair and feet,
I’m overtaken, vitalized like a storm upon trees
and when the blaze and shine of Awen passes
the landscape has changed, my form is made new,
birthed, once more, into a summer afternoon.