Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bardic, consciousness, landscape photography, metaphysics, nature, Poetry, ritual, teachings, tree spirits on August 17, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Tree spell ritual
The world breathes through me
and I am full of trees.
Silent teachers fill the silence;
Patterns dance at the surfaces of light.
Through doorways I dissolve
And am reborn with bones of truth.
Made whole and healed with cloaks of song.
Anchored, rooted, nurtured, sustained.
Harmlessly unfurled, patiently watching.
I am full of trees, dreamed by trees.
Ruthlessly harmless, sustained in emptiness.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged courage, holly, honour, initiation, metaphysics, mystery, peace, Poetry, tree spirits, vision dream on July 15, 2016| Leave a Comment »
—
A Precision of Holly
This is how it seemed
in the white midnight of midsummer,
with a whispered moon,
between waking and sleeping:
through a hushed land a procession made
of Holly Lords, strong eyes of peace,
and all together with Holly Ladies, so soft with love.
Soft and strong singing quiet with steady step,
tall and whip-like truth not tip-toeing
around the sleeping, not roaring but
tipping the world in a slow spin onward,
setting rhythm to rights and breathing
green pooled ease in the red ripening of it,
in the swell of seed and fat-juiced fullness of it.
Dark in sunlight, pale glimmering in shade,
an equipoise of attentive judgement,
a precise distinction making room for joy,
an opening upon a narrow sky,
a cooling and a warming of blood,
too hot and too cold, wrapped, held, woven.
A statement, a clear intent, an incense risen up,
a perfected purification, a curved calm vector towards peace.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged landscape, photography, Poetry, Powys, Saint Llywel, time, tree spirits, trees, Wales, yews on August 27, 2014| 11 Comments »
YEWS OF LLYWEL
1
Older than theologies,
Blood grail holder
A taste of cinnamon and rust.
He would have stood here shaded,
Llywel, eyes following your dark spirals,
Hands and back against your rough dragon skin,
Watching the rain sweep in across the valley trees.
The little stream growing loud then quiet again,
The nod of measowsweet and hawkweed,
A thick, potent prayer tasting on his lips.
2
Lidless, you seeing yews,
Eyes fast on eternity,
Shrugging off days and years.
Time, (even), kneels down in your shade
Forgetting all but this one moment,
Head bowed, long-veined hands
Like the valleys of the Epynt,
River full and throbbing green,
Bending seawards, bending to the lowlands,
Bending to the silence, to the confluence of breath,
An instant of clarity, wordless, bubbled, weightless.
The chambered heart, rope and sinew,
Knotted, released, a stretched tympanum quivering.
One vowel, one consonant, one tree.
3
My tongue a rolling mist,
A down feather aimless,
Unable to approach nearer
The in and out of your mighty, inexorable breath.
Time’s golden apples fall ripe and fall rotten,
Lapsed thought imcomprehensible.
A simple vastness, single, resounding,
A parliament of photons.
Woven thickly, red, hard, etched water.
A held swirl, thirled moments,
Nailed, transfigured, an apotheosis
Beyond good or bad, beyond purpose,
Beyond meaning,
An etymology of divinity.
simonhlilly 