She remains.
She, the star-born.
She has remained.
She will remain.
he saw time's dawning, watched the first light grow,
smiled at the water's lapping on her breast,
waking awareness, warming, arousing,
cajoling the flow of her life-force outpouring.
First fish and fountains,
mountains arising in lava-black steaming;
sculpture of ice-floe and soft-rain shaping;
in springs stroked by sunlight, gardens awaking.
Life spilling over, exulting, abounding,
rich in her plenty, freely bestowed.
Then we, latest-born, afforded full favour.
We, latest-born:
Black-sheep.
Betrayers.
Who no longer hear her heart-beat,
who would wound the womb that bore us.
In arrogance we turn aside,
scorning her ancient law,
no longer do we hear her cradle-song,
nor heed her tears.
She remains.
She has remained.
She will remain.
But she weeps.
She weeps for thoughtless children who,
haughty in hubris,
have forgotten their begetting:
we too are star-born,
atom of her atom, flesh of her flesh.
Born of her, we must return at last -
earth to earth, inseparate.
Without her we have nothing.
Without her we are nothing.
And when we have destroyed our mother,
when the last leaf falls and the last fish dies,
when the last starving child
cries the last startled 'Why?',
when nothing is left
but the sigh of her breath
searching despairing along lonely byways
dun-coloured dust under desolate skies --
then,
she will remain,
gutted by our greed,
poisoned by our ignorance.
Scarred,
wasted,
silent.
Alone.
Will she then weep, and rest, and sleep,
while galaxies wheel and bright stars blaze and die,
until her strength returns
and she stirs,
shakes herself to wakefulness,
fills fresh blue skies with cleaner air,
paints on a new face,
and finds heart enough
to try again?
She remains.
She has remained.
She will remain.
She will bear new children.
Will she remember us
only as she remembers the dinosaurs -
another experiment that failed?
Great Mother of All Living,
Thou, Lady of Summer, Ruler of Wild Oxen,
Life-in-Death and Death-in-Life.
We pray Thee,
Hear us:
Great Mother of All Living,
Thou, Mother, Sister, Lover, Friend and Shroud-weaver,
White Raiser, Red Reaper, Dark Winnower,
Virgin, Mistress, Builder of the Pyre,
Supreme in heaven,
and on earth,
and in the world below.
Great Mother of All Living,
Let not the sky fall,
Nor the seas overflow,
Nor the earth crack under us.
Lady of the Changeful Moon,
Wife-mother-slayer to the Waxing, Waning Sun,
Gentle Rhia of the White Track of Stars,
Andastre, Blood-red Queen of Lust and War,
Caridwen, Dread Dame of Last Days.
Great Mother of All Living,
Threefold, Fivefold, Ninefold Goddess,
We pray Thee,
Hear us.
Hear us,
We pray Thee.
Let the song be of Boudicca,
Of her life
And of her spirit,
Which is fled, with skeins of wild geese,
To the back of the North Wind.
Though she dwells in the Glass Castle,
Beyond the sight of mortals,
She remains in burnished memory,
One with earth and sky and water,
With the Maiden,
daughter's daughter:
One with Thee,
Threefold Goddess.
Water, firelight, mystic dew;
White, and scarlet, and midnight blue.
In willow days the hawk will fly
To hunt the hare through evening haze
And seek the night-dark trees that stand
Gathered to guard the sacred place.
The moon in artless beauty rides
Twin-horned above the alder blooms,
To breathe a sigh among the reeds
And whisper, Willow, he comes, he comes.
Water, firelight, mystic dew;
White, and scarlet, and midnight blue.
Now comes the Maiden, purified,
Drawn by the note of him who trod
The primrose path, all clothed in green,
Mortal, with footsteps of a God.
In night's deep cloak, and silence dread
Folded, the rites of love they sing;
Not of themselves, Immortal-rapt,
As has been, as is now, as shall be again.
Water, firelight, mystic dew;
White, and scarlet, and midnight blue.
He sleeps as, with the ebbing tide,
She leaves - the Maiden, oak and wren
Threefold beneath the bone-white moon
Who, smiling, hides her face again.
Then full in manhood comes the sun,
With fire and tears; his power shall move
A wind to stir his singing head
And chant, Awake, Albina's grove!
Whisper to me when the morning is still,
when we're both half asleep and the bed's growing cool;
whisper of memories we made on that hill,
when the larks flew up high as we played Jack and Jill:
remind me of when I was young, and a fool.
Whisper to me when the noontide is strong
and the poached egg on toast has congealed on the plate;
whisper of paths that were winding and long,
when a boy and a girl were too young to do wrong:
remind me I once didn't fret about weight.
Whisper to me when the evening grows old
and some cop on the telly's just shot down a thief;
whisper of when we were hopeful and bold
and the dreams that we dreamed were about to unfold:
remind me that maybe it's quite a relief
that youth is so brief.
To my dearest dear
companion,
my best friend, my Valentine:
I send you loving wishes
that our paths may long entwine.
We have shared so much together,
often laughter, sometimes tears,
But I've always been so glad
to have you with me, down the years.
Although we're growing older,
and both prone to wear and tear,
Time has only made me thankful
that fate destined us a pair.
And if there are occasions
when we drive each other mad,
Over forty years the happy times
have far outweighed the bad.
I just want to say that, looking back,
I find that this is true:
The best part of my life has been
a love-song, thanks to you.
Invocation, Rhiannon's Prayer and Boudicca's Song were all written for 'The People of the Horse', my Iron Age saga of Boudicca and her daughter