by Jill Smith

Small and unpretentious;
Still, dark and peaceful;
Strong and undisturbed.
The well is
As it has been,
High above the sea –
The crashing rollers of the ocean
Or the quiet waves
That rattle the stones of the beach
As they pull back with the tide.

A little fence keeps the sheep out.
The path seems well-used
By more than curious tourists.

Sit by the well, my son,
In the stillness
Of this January afternoon.
All’s gold now
As the sun sinks in the misty sky.
Sit in the quiet
And the strength
By these clear dark waters.
Bride is here already.

On the top stone
There’s the imprint of a horseshoe.
Bride of Smithcraft.
Sit by the well, little Smith.

The blazing gold
Reflects in the still sea.
The sky grows blood red.
Bride’s Fire.

That night,
Blood fire in the clear sky,
The sharp clean
Crescent
Of a new moon.
Bride’s moon.
Bride’s horse-shoe smithed.

Blood red dawn.
Bride’s fire.

A candle by the well.
Bride’s fire.

Waters from sacred wells and springs
From this day in other years
We bring you.
Links in a healing chain.
A crystal from the Hag’s valley:
Samhain to Imbolc.
Winter is over.
The Hag turns to Maiden.

Bride stands
Silver and white,
Healing water in her hands.
Heal this sick earth,
This sick race of man.
Blessed Bride.

Sit by the well, my son,
Still
Watch the clear dark waters.
Drink it, clean and pure.

Winter is over.
There’s a lightness,
A brightness.
Reluctantly
The strong wind
Extinguishes the flame.

   _________

The stones
At Callanish
Sing
In their whiteness
And lightness
And brightness.
And welcome us
Home again.

Text  © Jill Smith (1987)

Designed & Maintained by Richard L. Pederick (© 1999) | Created 05/02/01