At Stonehenge poised for morn in deepest darkness,
We beckon Lady Ceridwen, our Goddess Crone,
And mark Samhain’s quiet constant stillness,
To death in Yule we walk with magic to the stone.
Dark mother, wise one, heal us in the underworld,
Where the winter souls find rebirth in breaking sun.
It returns the fecund resplendence that it unfurled,
And warms the blood and bone with hope and passion.
We feast celebrating, slaughtering a spring-born animal,
And dwell where ancestral souls wait solar rebirth,
We call upon sun god Esus to offer light’s arrival,
Brightening, emblazoning the cold and frosted earth.
Ceased in longest night, we linger here in winter death,
That we trust again the power of light, our shibboleth.
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2021
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