She - by Jill Morgan [Spirituality & Religion]
Hold, I wonder, do you see her?
In the lake and in the mountain?
In the crumbled earth of Ériu?
In the dolmen stones upstanding?
She is known among the women,
well remembered by their mothers.
Called as Mary and as Brigit,
called Rhiannon and Epona.
In Aberffraw, and Bretain,
In Albu of the heathers,
She, Sinand, the river Shannon.
She, Ulaid, the land of Ulster.
By whatever name you know her,
by Aranrhad, or by Danu–
by the magic of Ceridwen,
with her cauldron of forever–
In that grail of life, you’ll find her.
In that swell of words and water.
There she waits, the budding maiden.
There the mother, and the old one.
All, we find within the cauldron,
that green chalice of Ériu.
In the Side, and on the hilltops,
words of poets, and of witches.
Call the stones down from their mountains.
Call the seas to speak the water.
Hear the voice of She of Ireland
in the misted morn surrounds them.
She is Bruig na Bóinde, the hostel.
She, the oak of Druid forests.
She, the ring of stones at Avebury
She, the water of the Liffey.
And the people of the Goddess
hold a feis to mark the marriage
of the king, Túatha Dé Danand
on the holy hill of Tara.
From the ancient earth, she watches,
from Síd Ban Find, and Breg Léith.
Known as Echu, Bóand, and Macha.
She is Étain of the hidden.
Secret Queen, whom earth has mated,
She of gods, and kings, and bishops,
keeps the laws of geiss and scripture,
keeps the singing sword of Arthur.
Hold, I wonder, do you see her?
In the green upon the meadow?
In the clearing on the hilltops?
In the blue eyes of the water?
Call her name, the Triple Goddess.
Speak of sorcery and treasure.
Tread the hallowed mounds at Samain
where the door of darkness opens.
In the mantle of the hillsides,
green in color marks her bedding.
And her veins, the waters flowing
over pebbled stones, and valleys.
From the Celtic race, she calls them.
Those, her children, scattered ‘round her.
An old woman, She, remember.
And the Mother’s voice, it echoes.
Hold, I wonder, do you see her?
In the lake and in the mountain?
In the crumbled earth of Ériu?
In the dolmen stones upstanding?
She is known among the women,
well remembered by their mothers.
Called as Mary and as Brigit,
called Rhiannon and Epona.
In Aberffraw, and Bretain,
In Albu of the heathers,
She, Sinand, the river Shannon.
She, Ulaid, the land of Ulster.
By whatever name you know her,
by Aranrhad, or by Danu–
by the magic of Ceridwen,
with her cauldron of forever–
In that grail of life, you’ll find her.
In that swell of words and water.
There she waits, the budding maiden.
There the mother, and the old one.
All, we find within the cauldron,
that green chalice of Ériu.
In the Side, and on the hilltops,
words of poets, and of witches.
Call the stones down from their mountains.
Call the seas to speak the water.
Hear the voice of She of Ireland
in the misted morn surrounds them.
She is Bruig na Bóinde, the hostel.
She, the oak of Druid forests.
She, the ring of stones at Avebury
She, the water of the Liffey.
And the people of the Goddess
hold a feis to mark the marriage
of the king, Túatha Dé Danand
on the holy hill of Tara.
From the ancient earth, she watches,
from Síd Ban Find, and Breg Léith.
Known as Echu, Bóand, and Macha.
She is Étain of the hidden.
Secret Queen, whom earth has mated,
She of gods, and kings, and bishops,
keeps the laws of geiss and scripture,
keeps the singing sword of Arthur.
Hold, I wonder, do you see her?
In the green upon the meadow?
In the clearing on the hilltops?
In the blue eyes of the water?
Call her name, the Triple Goddess.
Speak of sorcery and treasure.
Tread the hallowed mounds at Samain
where the door of darkness opens.
In the mantle of the hillsides,
green in color marks her bedding.
And her veins, the waters flowing
over pebbled stones, and valleys.
From the Celtic race, she calls them.
Those, her children, scattered ‘round her.
An old woman, She, remember.
And the Mother’s voice, it echoes.
Hold, I wonder, do you see her?
