First poem on this blog
Grey trunks of long dead trees
Stand upright once again.
Found, deep in fens brackish bog,
Preserved, transformed,
Resurrected.
Rootless but held fast
Aligned with exacting care
To greet the moon,
To mark her passage
Through the year,
To shine beneath the
Touch of her cold light.
I wander between their circled ranks
The still bright setting sun
Turning this new made ancient place
Into a field of gold and shadows.
This place born from love and loss
Built in memory of a wife, an artist,
A mother, a friend, a lover.
I did not know her, but perhaps this place
Says more than words about who she was
These two concentric circles are hers
Shared with the goddess and the moon
But still more hers than theirs
Stillness wraps itself
Around these trunks
Not the still of death
Nor the quiet sounds of nature
This stillness is more contemplation.
Perhaps that of an artist or of art itself.
Perhaps this place is art.
An installation of the spirit?
Do the people gathered here,
To mark the calendars high tide,
Feel the spirit of this place?
Probably more than I
Hail and well met!
The fire is lit
The circle is made and opened,
And dead trees and living people
Mark the coming of the night together
With hopes and dreams
With silent, word-led meditation
With invocation and explanation
With belief and love and joy
Warmth of heart seeks to replace the
Dying warmth of setting sun
Later
After celebration and ceremony
After food and drink and music
After chants and drums
After almost everyone is asleep
A few of us linger around the fire
In the giant tribal lodge
To give to each other
Small pieces of ourselves,
Wrapped In words to keep them safe,
Sharing out these careful careless words
Until one of us succumbs to night.
Curled beside the embers.
We put a blanket over her
Leave her there to sleep
Outside the lodge
Midnight blue has given way
To ever lighter shades of night
Drawing slowly waking sleepers
To the heart of this wood henge.
Some dressed for early morning cool
Others wrapped in blankets
Over what they wore to sleep.
It begins
The sky now in its lightest shade,
Hides nights bright jewels
Leaving one silver pendant
To watch with indifferent calm
As a fiery replacement takes
Its place around the throat of day.
The first hint of golden sun
Begins its slow climb across
Almost unbroken blue,
Drums beat out the rhythm
Of the dawn.
The four elements are invoked
The goddess called to give her
Blessings for us all, to us all
Mothers Earth and Nature,
Watching over as the
Wheel turns once more.
It is done
The Solstice dawn is shared
Celebrated, praised
In hope that there is hope.
The circle opens once again
Before it breaks
People drift away
To eat breakfast
To clear away their tents
To rest, to sleep
To feel some peace
Even if lasts only until we wake
Poems of street lives, night lives and love lives. 