Old she is, and wise

Old she is and wise

White hair spiralling into a galaxy of stars.

Time was when she was young and lithe

Burning with the fire of a million suns

Exploding out from the darkness

All flame and burning passion.

She spun the moonlight from her silver hair

Kissed the earth into being

Moulded from mud and her spit

The creatures, trees, mountains.

Dug great pits for oceans and filled them

With tears of laughter

In the pure joy of creation.

Aeons passed.

She grew old in her watching, in her waiting,

Grew strong on the prayers of her

children, dolphin song, volcano shout,

The pure clear voice of the wolf by moonlight.

Her fingers stretch out to caress each one,

Her breath whispers in dreams,

Her footsteps in each heartbeat.

She gathers the lost children, the old ones dying,

She heals and wholes in the kindness of strangers,

The hope of a sunrise.

She waits in the ink-black darkness for us to awake,

And know her again.

I have been trying for an age to work out “who” I am speaking to now when I offer devotion. Christianity is pretty clear about its God and the pagan world (for a newbie) is a bright and magical place, a bazaar of deities, like entering a crowded party and trying to get acquainted with the whole room.

Six years later I know who my goddess is. I know, too, how she is and where I will find her. I know some of her names; Cerridwen, Hecate, Hel.

She is grandmother and moon priestess, witch and wise one, she hides in plain sight among the unwanted, in shadowy places. She dances in the clear light of a frost kissed morning. This poem is an attempt at a “creed”, for today at least.

Fiona x

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