Mirror unto sky

Silvered, circled glass, ringed by places high, as fine a place to live as to bide.

An eye to stare unto the aether and endless spaces, moved by moon-tide and kissed by whispered winds alone.

Beneath the glass lies who knows what may, iris by light and pupil black at dark of day. Glamours to charm and beasts  by droves to slay.

Lost and by all time forgot, all the deeds of Lords begot, the wending depth-bound way hither conjures my thought this day.

In clear waters to forget of rage and woes, to find again my way to gentler roads, to twine thought with stream and become as one and pass as it may go. Flowing back unto glories past and foretold.

Peace within my garden, rest inside my home.

My hands they till this good earth, to bring forth beauty and what is of worth. At dawn to plant, at dusk to reap with such tools as is meet to use but ever are my hands the engine of creation in this little place and if lax in my care I seem give but time and a little bit of grace.

Black and red are the lands that I prefer, where always there be green, in spring and fall and high tide summer. The dry and sandy places, of my skill there I can find no traces.

But a poor druid am, I leave it unto others to bring forth Eden under barren desert sky.

Still my hands unquiet move, here to trim, there cut, there to prove. In my quiet little garden, I paint the world with blossom and with garland. 

I dream to bring forth here in this gentle place, the druids’ peace that transcends all of time and faith and race. 

Every life is welcome here, from those upon the wing to those who live below and never see the sky come clear.

Out among the roses do I bide in the quiet calm and wait for more to come. The lavender and mint and honey-mild bee balm. I have sown them all perhaps they’ll grow whether all or some.

Catnip brings those who go on fours, here they’ll keep the peace, there food enough indoors.

Snapdragons bleeding bright, draw all who seek rest and show the path aright. 

Here among the trees and light, no better temple could I ask, for the fostering of life is a good and holy task.

Welcome to Grove my little piece of home. Come and let be healed the hurts of heart and hand and bone.

The wheel of the world

Summer follows winter follows autumn and the spring. The wheel it turns and change is the only promise that it brings.

Time and time and time and time again, seed rises unto flower only bent to die again. Earthen beds they hold the wheel, to feel it’s turn and bid new life to rise again.

Ever does a bird take wing upon a breath of air that’s not been breathed before, first foul now clear? The air keeps to the wheel and whistles thundre’s score.

Within the deepest waters unseen that shall swallow one day, life yet swims, ever as the wheel, the end is where it begins.

Even fire with its burning pain and blight waken life from the ashes to set the wheel aright.

Wheel of seasons, wheel of worlds, ever onward fate and mischanced fortune twirls. 

Raise a voice,  a glass on high, toast the wheel of life afore we die.

Ever does it turn, what may be shall come to you upon its time. All things unto all life.

 Keep hope even as ye burn.