the iron chain is heavy
a burden on my neck
it binds me to an ancient path
made of blood and bones
the bondage of the tribe
it binds me to my roots
when the storms arise
the chain of jade is mystery
cool green glades
where water drips
into a silent lake
in quiet meditation
alone
i sit
i wait
until the sparkling silver chain
leads me through the dark
it captures midnight stars
with flashing moonlit sparkles
that illuminate my heart
and lead my feet away
along the magic path
On Cadair Idris, close by to the bottomless lake of Llyn Cau, I spent the night on a Rocking Stone, with a youthful desire in my heart, to be a Poet Bard. Legend has it that a night on Cadair’s cold flank gives the curse of madness, or the blessings of Seer or Bard. I knew the risk to my mind and the risks of the rocking stone, the balancing of the stone, a balance to be held on a dark night, high up and all alone. I sat and prayed in silence to the moon and stars above, looking up with eyes wide open, alert to the mountain, the rock and the wind that blew in that desolate spot.
The night was long. I came down with the dawn as nothing; an empty vessel waiting to be filled. No-one, nothing at all. Aware that I was very small.
Ten years later, or was it five, and does it matter how old I was, I spent the night on a rock atop a Tor, looking out across a wide open remote moor. I saw the creatures of the night as they scurried about and eyes shining and blinking in the dark. I heard the song of the wind through the rocks. Nothing more. It was enough.
The night was long. I came down feeling I belonged to something though I knew not what. I became a journey begun.
The night I spent on the cliff edge where the wind sings in the grass above granite rock, the waves beat on the rocks below and seven hours became one. Time slowed, or the stars and the moon sped by, who can tell which, the night I sat high on the cliff edge, the moon path spread across the sea, glimmering on water, reaching out to the a far horizon.
The stars, with the moon at the centre of all, moved in a slow ballet of curved motion across the sky, the constellations shone out from the web of night, a rotation eternal, a moving wheel. Beneath me the tide rolled in an out, fast. Time did not stop, it slowed or the world sped up while beauty shone out high above.
Seven hours became one.
If I can, by a shift of my mind, alter seven hours to one could I change one hour to seven and make life longer or can I pull seven hours into one? What is time but illusion? The days of a child are long, a summer an eternity. Seven hours could easily be as seven decades to a shorter lived creature than me. Does a butterfly live six score years and ten in so short a span as a day.
The earth is a rocking stone held in place by the moon while the sun brings it life. Time does not exist. Life and death is all we have and are but we are not bound in time.
We are all finely balanced on the stone. We either fall off or we balance.
This is all I have learned on the Rocking Stone. This is not the end of my journey, a journey I make alone.
Beauty seems eternal
When the evening light casts magic
Across the waters shining mirror
Mirror of the sky above,
Eternal stars reflecting,
This too, a passing magic
Eternal lasting magic
Can’t be captured in a mirror
Yet life goes on eternal
The souls eternal magic in not reflected in my mirror
i stood on a hill
and looked up at the stars
it’s such a relief to see
and be
not even as big as an ant
the distant moon is on the wane
circled round with frosted light
it shines upon the silvered grass
and lights the windows of the town
the rooftops wear a coat of white
the night is still, the lamps are lit
the diamond sprinkled stars shine down
the air is chill, the house is quiet
but i would wander back again
to old familiar paths and lanes
where hedgerows cloth the hidden walls
and up above the rounded hill
with all the land stretched out below
from wood to barn in silent flight
the owl swoops past in shadowed night
Give thanks for the air that fills you lungs
And the heart that still beats in your breast
Give thanks for all the love you’ve received
And for every time you’ve been blessed
Give thanks for the sun that rises each morning
And the sweet gentle rest of the night
And the dreams that come when you open your mind
And the bright stars above so bright
Give thanks for the times you could help a good friend
Give thanks for a strangers wise words
Give thanks for the food on your table each day
And share what you have with the world
we are children of the sun
fear not evening when it comes
fear not winters failing light
when our hearth fires burn so bright
though the snow is on the ground
with the shadows gathered all around
the stars are shining brighter up above
and our hearts are filled with warmth of love
come with gladness
come with cheer
come to bless the turning year
we will sing
we will bring the Yule log in
pine and holly from the wood
as we share the deep red cup of glowing wine
come with gladness
come with cheer
come to bless the turning year
we will dance
we will hang the mistletoe
i will kiss you once again
and await the springs returning of the wren
the dark is full of shining stars
the moon will fade tomorrow
the morning sun is coming up
these things are sure as turning fate
but i can only sit and wait
the night will surely follow
the house is there but we are not
no fire burns within the grate
now the hour is growing late
home and my heart are hollow
no matter how the birds may sing
I sit here full of sorrow
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
This short sweet night is full of stars,
crossing slowly east to west,
the circle of the ancient stones
by dark and moonlight blessed.
The air alive with music now,
soft steps and voices echo.
Through the tender bending trees,
They enter to the clearing.
The circling dancers, as before,
leave traces where their steps fall
on grass in silvered shining dew.
The dark of night is fleeting.
They come to silent rest at dawn
to stand and watch in awe
the line of light rise in the east,
grow swift to sun, uplifting,
to reclaim the turning year
in blazing light and glory.
This day’s the longest in the year,
tomorrows will be shorter.
Each moon passes swiftly.
Then we’ll dance into the dark
retelling the old stories.
We’ll sit beside our winter fires
’til summer comes, repeating
The Dreaming Path 