Poems of Transformation

Waiting for the Dawn

In the hazy, silken twilight,
The stars glisten like shards of shattered glass,
Strewn across the velvet sky.
The reflected moon ripples and dances,
On the lazy, rolling surf below.
Your arms around me, our fingers entwined,
We hold our breath, and pause,
Waiting in silent peace,
For the coming sun,
To transform the world once more.

Fenland Landscape

The rich dark brown of the freshly ploughed fields
Gleams in the early morning mist.
Trees stand stark and bare like protective shields
In a carpet of rich brown leaves.
Low in the sky sits the sun
Shining its light into my eyes
Deflecting me from the view ahead.
Pools of water sit calm in deep furrows;
A symbol of peace and tranquillity.

But underneath the cold brown earth
All is not quiet as seen from above.
The moisture feeds the hidden roots
Which search for the warmth of the sun.
And soon the rich brown soil becomes
A waving sea of green
And the trees in full leaf no longer stark
But still protecting the fields.
Once again the landscape is transformed
From barren brown to fruitful green.

Granny

Maid – Mother
Wench -Wife
Young to rear,
No safety here,
Life she gave,
Her young she laid,
The gift she gave,
Could not stay,
Instead she lay with fish and weed,
Blessed her seed,
Arms open wide,
Dancing she died.

Modern Day Pagan

Put the car keys aside,
It’s Mother Earth tonight.
Just been to Tesco’s,
For their cheap, immoral shite
Off comes the brand new suit,
On goes the ritual gear.
Out with the ‘never mind you Jack’,
It’s fellowship of spirit here.
No more monetary fiscal thoughts,
Only peace and light and doves.
No more shafting poor folk,
Now it’s unconditional love.
Breath in my pagan spirit,
From a smelly cheap incense.
Made by a sweatshop worker,
Paid for a day, in pence.
For a full hour I’m a pagan,
Full of Pagan fire.
I call myself honourable,
But know I am a liar.
Transformation doesn’t come
From putting a robe on.
It comes from living ethically.
That’s all to say.  I’m done.

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