goodnight to you now
sleep softly in moonlight
with warmth wrapped around
when morning dew falls
may the song of the robin
bring joy to your day
Author: A. Gouedard
On the Wane
1.
here in a bubble of moonlight
no strong winds can blow me
i sit and watch the world go by
floating, bound, unfeeling
what is this spell that holds me
enclosed and isolated
surrounded by air and light
contained in silence
i try to reach out, the bubble stretches.
untouched yet never quite defeated
i look out, no-one comes near
i long to feel earth beneath my feet
this curse is but a fleeting moment
in the time of the waning i am winnowed
all things pass and change and pass
the moon will wax again at last
2,
paths keep crossing for their own reasons
the twirl of the world, the switch of the season
cycles coming, growing, going
we turn to each other familiar faces
lit by moonlight, hidden by shadows
the stranger you meet who holds up a light
comes in the dusk and leaves in the night
3.
the moment the moon begins to wane
all the old predators come back again
snarling and circling and snapping their jaws
prowling around me, sniffing the air
they smell my defeat before its begun
should i offer my throat and be done
is there final release in their teeth
no sanctuary, no solace, no welcoming peace
so far from the fire, the torch and the hearth
so many riddles i cant answer
all my answers misunderstood
no star to guide me, lost in the wood
bound to a tree, yet i break free
when the darkest hour strikes
i refuse the final sacrifice
there is music, sunlight, life
i sink down to rise again
Widdershins
Dance widdershins
To enter the land of Faerie.
Every turn on the journey,
From the Oak to the hearth,
Is widdershins
If your milk turns sour
Don’t be so sure that the date has expired
Make restoration with sweet gifts at you door
Never undervalue the unseen
Turn all the angles, dance widdershins
The gate may be by your own front door
And the path that turns and twines in the wood
Follow the soft breeze at dusk
And the owls hoot
Faced with a choice, turn widdershins
That sound at your window at night
Isnt a twig, tap tap tapping
It’s a small finger and a flutter of wings
Don’t be deluded
Turn in your bed, widdershins
my father
it was not until i found myself swimming alone
that i realised he was my rock
taken for granted always there
though i had watched the life source dim
with regret and compassion
there is no other rock out there
in the endless sea
now i see why he tried to teach me
to float to dry land, each time i swam off
flailing my arms about
On the Edge, but not falling
was i pretending to myself again?
is it all illusion, fantasy, delusion, that life is beautiful?
am i walking in the dark, thinking there are lanterns?
are there angels in the trees? did I dream them?
can love be forever? is it ever?
will i drown in clear air for lack of hope?
when my heart leapt for joy was that all a lie?
can the world be empty darkness, as i saw it today?
where has all the glory gone that i saw yesterday?
perceptions, happiness, despondency,
the ebb and flow, what’s true, what isn’t,
no clarity, no balance, clouded vision
shadows dancing on the wall in firelight
music heard far off, the shade behind the waterfall,
a leaf turning in light, falling, landing rots to dust
the echo of a voice across a valley far away, sun sinking,
frost that silvers the hilltops, the cocks crow at dawn,
a sense that all is born to die, overpowered, as it must
light reflected in a lake, rainbows over cornfields,
swallows gliding on the high still air, above the wood,
the dark smell of mud, these are things i trust
joys, sorrows, melancholia, laugher, tears
bring what they may or go as they might
remembered or forgotten over tumbling years
a pattern, night into day, day into night,
underneath all this one beauty, shining bright,
burning light, conquering fruitless fear
a celestial light, strong and clear
thats illuminates true love
and a straight path
The Green Man
he wanders free in the wild wood
naked,
the glance of his eye a green sunbeam
filtered through ancient branches
his sigh a shimmer of leaves
he wanders alone in the wild wood
bringing the violent storm
and spinning the whirlwind leaves
he throws branches to the ground
to be gathered for fire and home
he wanders entranced in the wild wood
naked, he walks the paths of the deer,
those secret paths that are not to be found
unless you have eyes to see
the magic that shelters in trees
he wanders free in the wild wood
smeared in musk and honey
rabbits twitch their ears and suddenly run
you know you are watched
by the tingling of your spine
his feet buried in roots
his head circled by hawks
he is dangerous, terrible, beautiful
heady as wine, drunk on the sap of life
he is around the next turn and the last
promises
promises are like butterflies
wonderful, even spectacular
but when you touch their wings
they cannot fly any more
i don’t promise
i care
without power
when the power went out we were ready
the oil lamps were always filled
the white candles stood in their holders
all was warmth and comfort
we gathered more brushwood and bracken
kindled the fire, make it crackle,
piling on logs and driftwood
we had dried in the yard in the summer
the kettle was boiling,
bread steadily rising,
as we sat near the wood stove,
silently gazing, drifting in dreams,
telling stories and fantasies
hot baths in steam and candlelight
snuggling under thick blankets
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
making a flute of the drainpipes
life went on unchanging, undaunted
when the power came back
we flicked a switch and turned on the radio
the world stepped back into the house
bringing nothing of value
tonight in another time and place
i live in another era, with no power
the house instantly grows colder
i wander about with a battery torch
in rooms full of shadows
i missed you more
than the woodsmoke and firelight
and any old luxuries of survival
but none of it matters now
The Wound
I have a horse I trust and rely on
I feed him, groom him, love him.
I stroke him, he nuzzles my ear.
My heart is gladdened when i see him
When i approach he comes without call.
We move as one in the wind
In a harmonious motion and rhythm
To ride him is pleasure and joy
If he were a wild cat trapped in a corner,
Or a scorpion entering my tent at night,
I would not feel this trust and calmness,
No affection would shine in my glance.
I might expect to sustain a wound,
A wound that might even be mortal.
But my horse is not a cat or a scorpion,
He is my friend and companion.
So the wound from my beautiful horse,
When he suddenly turned and kicked me,
Hurt more than scorpions’ sting or tiger claw.
I don’t know where this blow sprang from,
Some hurt of his own perhaps.
Now we look at each other a little askance
And I wonder how to approach him again.
I only know I must heal this
This healing is bound with my love of him
But my wound is still open and sore.
An enemy is expected to hurt us
We guard against the attack
But when a creature cherished and loved
Gives the blow and the hurt
This wound ploughs a furrow far deeper
It strikes straight and strong to the heart.
The White Cow
the palace of gold and blue
stood high above on the hill
shimmering in heat like a mirage
the chatter of monkeys was shrill
in the river below elephants bathed
later that evening, so clearly recalled now,
as the sun dipped down in a pink haze
we saw a sadhu with a white cow
we followed to a tea stall
by the steps of an old temple
the cow so beautiful, gentle
its eyes lined with khol
wore a garland of marigold and a bell
that rang softly as it gazed at me
reaching my heart and casting a spell
on the temple steps we sat
slowly sipping hot tea
beneath a sickle moon and one bright star
we spoke in quiet voices
until the man and the cow both bowed and walked on
i see that cow as clearly years later
as if it was but a moment ago
i listened to the sadhu’s every word
it was the white cow i heard
it spoke only of acceptance and love
The Dreaming Path 