The First Year - Harvest
Lammas - Samhain 2003
This period was highlighted by a Druid Retreat I went on in early September and by confirming my Bardic vows at the Gorsedd of Caer Abiri at Avebury at the Autumn Equinox. The Retreat was important to me, not only because four poems came directly from it but because it introduced me to the village where I now live and its glorious woods. I took a year off from my psychotherapy course, which gave me a breathing space and made me look closely at my life and make changes that otherwise would have been more difficult.
Weeping
Golden
Spring
Moon Drift
Dawn Woodland
Heart of Darkness
Boudicca
Weeping
Why do I weep? I who have all that I desire? Because the world is weak And willing to follow false gods Of greed and envy, power and control? Because the world is sad Through sickness, war and need? No, I weep because I am me Then I must find another way, © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 17/8/2003 |
Golden
The first of the four poems written at the Druid Retreat.
Golden is the Ash Tree turning; Golden seeds, then Golden leaves, Telling me the year is turning; Autumn comes and as it comes It calls to me that with the season I must also change. At Golden Lammas-tide I knew the change must come Is there a Golden future set for me? © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 5/9/2003 |
Spring
There is a place Where two trees have fallen. Twin stumps yet both alive with growth, And from their feet a spring arises And water trickles down the slope And all around the music of the wood. This is a magic place, a sacred spot © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 6/9/2003 |
Moon Drift
Pure word music. Published on The Druid Network website.
Mind drifting, Moon drift Lost on a silver night. Mist-carried to strange lands Of silver clouds and frosted light. Candle lit evening talking Mist-lost in silver night. © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 6/9/2003 |
Dawn Woodland
The spirit woods are calling, Carrying their call on the dark morn light. I answer: ‘Will you welcome?’ They say: ‘Yea’. I ask then: ‘Is there danger?’ They say: ‘Nay.’ I must beware of spirits for They cannot always know what’s true For their truth is not mine. But still I enter in the dark The pigeons murmur, crows call, I ask a passing tree: ‘Is this the way?’ At last the wood’s edge I reach The grey shadows gone the secrets © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 7/9/2003 |
Heart of Darkness
I wrote this one evening in a sort of half-trance. I just wrote and wrote without knowing what I wrote. I tried to read it then but could make no sense of it. I woke up the next morning with a final line in my head. On inserting that into its proper place I began to understand what I'd written and it sent shivers up and down my spine.
The darkness lengthens, And with it comes the cold, Icy darkness that claws my living breath. The old year is dying And as it dies I turn from sun’s warmth To womb’s warmth. I call the Heart of Darkness, The Mother and the Soul of Darkness, The heart stopping Breath smothering Beautiful warm Darkness That envelopes all. And in that Darkness From such warm Darkness © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 8/10/2003 |
Boudicca
Inspired by watching a TV play about her.
I gaze across green pastures In the red glow of a winter sun. Is this the valley that drew you to your fate? Are these trees descendants Of those that saw your end? I hear the wild cries yet again And finally, your heart bursting in its hate And yet your memory still feeds Live on, dread queen! © Angela Grant (Kestrel) 9/10/2003 |