Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Moon Mother

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.

We connected

In moonlight

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

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