We stood last night, a circle of kindred, and watched Her
Coming out from behind the crag of Mt. Olympus
Not shy, this globe of glowing silver light,
But plangent, full and bursting, assertive, a Presence.
She was THERE....and we....?
We stood, cups in hand, watching the unveiling
Sight seen so often, never taken for granted,
Her bounteous presence once again with us,
And yet new, unexpected, ever vivid and compelling
like the air you breathe every morning,
essential and appreciated,
though often unremarked.
But we had to mark Her, this night, this appearance...
It was like the processional of an ancient Queen,
Panoplied in splendor, golden, coruscating, glinting with awareness...
She would not be unregarded.
And we raised our cups, and honored Her, and bowed....
None of us, we urban-dwelling Pagans,
even for a moment thinking of Science or Technology,
But all of us awed once again, as our race has been from time immemorial,
By the living presence of the Lady,
The Mother of Lights,
In Her silvered radiance.
She is a Mystery, and we watch in awe,
As her face reveals itself to us again and again,
Always for the first time.
We drank deep, mead we had made together, and savored the moment...
Ancient wine, ancient Lady, ancient mystery of craft and kith,
Loving our Presence here in timelessness
within the globe of silver light,
And still so essentially present in our own world,
The hiss of cars on the motorway resonating with the pulse of crashing surf,
Recalled in genetic memory, though never experienced.
And at that moment, we recalled
Or thought for the first time,
Of all the Hidden Children,
over our land and other lands
All of them watching
Seeing Her in radiance,
The same glowing silver face
The same breathless awakening,
The same Awe,
Time and place compelling different circumstances
But all kindred, honoring the Mother of All.
We lifted our glasses again,
Gazing ever upward,
And felt our connection
To those unknown faces,
Perhaps also raising glasses in tribute.
We drank to them
A toast to "the Others"
Her other children,
Those we will never see,
But whom we Know,
More intimately, perhaps, than those
with whom we brush careless shoulders
In offices and stores
Where her face does not shine.
to all those we may never see,
But whose hearts and minds are kin to us
because of Her shining silver radiance,
And She smiled.
Aisling the Bard, 2005