Sitting at her lavender pools,
I honour Grandmother Moon,
In her gentle glow and wisdom cools,
My face from walking a sun swept dune,
Entering her domain with only the silent bands,
Written upon the sum of my sun dried hands.
Plunging myself into the rich clay of these ancient earthen fields,
To pull out a sludge of what incessant mixture yields,
Remolding reshaping myself amongst the rocks I sink,
Repairing a lost and broken link.
Great Spirit is speaking.
An immense flood like falling curtains,
Behind the shield of walled up tears,
Appears the gifts of refulgent fountains,
The waters of wise and forgotten seers.
Flushing the shorn and stagnant crust,
I’m thrown against a powerful thrust,
Into a depth with gathering speed,
Like a boulder dislodged overturned and freed. –
Now, as a moment to breathe, to regain some calm,
As the water subsides into a gentle balm,
A presence arrives with voices of crones,
That shift the very landscape’s half light tones.
And in my open moistened eyes,
Grandmother Moon comes and gently dries,
Telling me secrets from brother Lynx,
Written upon the walls in the Cave of Blackened Inks,
Weaving the tales from sister Deer,
With fire glowing hairs of majestic thread. –
And while I rest, I may fail to hear,
And while I’m caressed and nourished and fed,
A while may I feel much that has been quietly sleeping,
In the bluest skies within an eternal breath’s safe keeping.