How the firewheel rolled
over the midsummer hills,
while bonfires were lit,
all throughout the land.
Processions of torches,
through the solstice fields,
wearing chaplets of mugwort,
Bestill my beating heart
if devotions verse should falter,
a sacrifice of days
upon love's broken alter.
Raise the cup of worth
beyond the gates of fear,
ride cupids arrow
Meet me at the standing stones,
meet me at the old crossroads.
Find me when the light is passing
through doorways of stone.
Where hearts of summer
greet the fire,
where love is conjured
When the darkness calls
raise up thine lantern,
when night wolves howl
raise up thy voice.
When the horned moon rises
raise up the lantern,
fear not the shadows
when the darkness calls.
Here among the stones
older than memory,
rhythyms of sun
moon and stars.
Here among the stones
we walk in the footsteps,
walked in a memory
in a lifetime afar.
Unfurl me,
when my petals are closed,
release me,
with dawns fingers of light.
Around thee,
as a vessel if thy wish,
within me,
the chalice of bliss.
Unbind me,
Sitting at the table
the boatman handed me a drink,
the music was such a ruckus
that I could hardly think.
I drank of his libation
and he offered me a ride,
and suddenly quite dizzy
The congregation gathered
on the hillside at the dawn,
some had come to frolic
others came to mourn.
The poet spoke an epitaph
by a grave long overgrown,
and wept for the memory
At the gates of old Saint Peter
the gathering began,
A host of familiar faces
of gods and beasts and men.
When the pipes of Bacchus sounded,
Coronis crooned along,
Quiet as night
light creeps in,
luring hearts
to a candle dim;
needing not
to guard the plot
nor beg for sun
or wind.
Quiet as eve
the lifeless grieve,
hidden roots
bear morrows kin,
The root is turning
beneath the great tree,
the sprig is twisting
In the heart of the seed this hour.
Feel the first bud unfurling
with tomorrows bright flowers,
whilst the old ice is melting
Oh siren sing
of shores long lost,
to ghost ships led
by albatross,
on phantom seas
over foggy tides,
to shores unseen
by unworthy eyes.
Oh siren song
of sweet allure,
black morgen wings,
Mary lit the candles
and the table was prepared
for a feast of such temptations
whence seraph never dared.
A stampede of cloven feet
in the distance could be heard,
The wings run ragged
through her wild night,
the nights howl louder
in a stars frozen light.
Her branches grow naked
as bare fallen horns,
her roses have fallen
and left only thorns.
Through skeleton leaves in the forest
she searches the shadowy wood,
for wellsprings long ago hidden
of sources long misunderstood.
A pentacle on a chain of silver
lays upon her breast,
