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21st Mount Haemus Lecture: The Well and the Chapel: Confluence
“RoMa Johnson, a Druid scholar, sets out to build bridges between Druidism and Christianity, describing these different approaches as hailing from the Well and the Chapel. Her radical exposition of communion between the two addresses the intimacy and the visceral nature and fierce and tender love that is ever present...
EPHA
As the sea-gnarled boatman guides his small craft in to shore, she sees a mottled crowd gathered on the strand: a few men come down from their chores, a few strong-armed women, their skirts sheltering peeking children. Her welcome party. She sees in their faces the eagerness of orphans...
About those Boots by the Door
diamond studded footsteps stamp out time to the forged platinum shadow walkers,
balancing on tighter ropes, navigating a razor thin edge
above the cavernous void, a friendly abyss
where fireflies are dancing like trophies
presented upon the successful tapping
by effervescent ruby colored cosmologists
awarded for those who found the most black holes . . .
About that Tree
Perhaps someday I'll believe my eyes
when, in time to come,
endless deserts of earthy sand
stop hiding your gleeful chortles,
showing how empty the sky was
before dawn's greasy streaks
turn to green summery shades,
and blazing into
a glorious emerald harvest
all bare branches covered with hospitable
leaf-shaped snails . . .
Apogee
There comes a time in every outward journey
when you reach apogee
the mathematical
hypothetical
mystical instant of the orbit
when you are furthest from your life
and you feel the curve of it
the swerve of it
the pull of it
toward home . . .
Plague Diaries
The Mirage
Last week it all seemed like a mirage, really, I mean we knew, of course, but it wasn’t real if you know what I mean. The map of the world turned red, country by country and I found myself thinking, well, we’re all one color now...
Eggs in Lewes
I boil an egg.
The kitchen smells of egg
well, it’s not a kitchen really
a cooker
on a shelf
under a window
in a hut
in a garden
in a village
in a park
quaint and lovely as those painted eggs we used to get
nested within each other . . .
Two-Candle Morning
Oh these two-candle mornings
post-Samhain
the ephemeral veil
between us and the beloved dead
thickens once more
folds over and into itself . . .
Alien Rest Stops
I have come to believe that aliens are among us,
But that doesn’t mean they belong.
They might walk-in to our disused bodies,
But it would have to be—to them—
Like one of us putting on sealskin trousers,
Then swimming out to sea.
Inhuman inside a human...
Arctic Wings
South of Iceland I look down and see her
Cresting the fetch in her tiny craft,
Riding down the long green wave.
Brave she sits inside the skin
Carrying only one small dirk,
One dram of water.
All around her the seabirds soar
Blinding white as seraphim,
White winged
Long necked...
Longing
There was a way she walked that reminded them
of someone…
a flickering memory… a hand reaching for a hem.
Sometimes little bits of light escaped
from the folds and seams of her clothes
ephemeral as fireflies, not catchable, not caught, but
sticky in a way, as if
if you touched one...
Wild Geese over Ronaldsay
Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap, flap
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack
Whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh, huh, whuh
What is the wind (around us) made of?
Not hard.
The breath of sun.
The sweat of moon...
Sisters
What if they were to meet
in the cloistered garden, there on Iona,
What would they say to one another?
+ I am the Bride of Christ.
• I am the bride of no man.
+ I clothe myself in humility and walk in silence...
In the Garden
What if
Jesus and Merlin were to meet
At twilight
In the garden, in the grove,
One looking forward to the Skull of Golgatha,
One looking back on the Sacred Head of Bran?
What would they say to one another,
These men, these gods,
Who live in time beyond their lives...
Theology of Fish
There was a fish
who lived in the sea.
S/he never thought of the sea
or dreamed of the sea;
it never occurred to herm.
S/he never wondered if the sea loved herm,
or where the sea ended (or began).
The sea, well, s/he had no concept of the sea.
Peregrini
I am the map you strive so hard to read.
I am the staff conveniently found
near the dangerous crossing.
I am your boots and
the dust on your boots.
I am the high breeze bringing
ice air from the mountain.
I am the castle keep of your destination...
Cailleach Bheur
A single stream of rain pours from a damaged gutter,
blows slantwise in the heavy gusts,
a straggling thread from the long grey gown of
Cailleach Bheur, Hag Queen of Winter,
bringer of storms.
Some say she is one-eyed,
old,
with bad teeth and
matted hair...