'The old Pictish priestess' by Victor Anderson

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

The old Pictish priestess

I heard an old woman say,
I have been a widow seven years.
My husband was killed while hunting deer
In the time of Mari the silent.
The last grey branch of an old dead tree
Fell upon him, crushing in his skull.
But when they told me, I did not weep,
For it was the holy time
Of the all-fruitful Bride and Mother
Whose sign is the full white moon.

Now I bless the young lovers
Who lie panting under the new moon.
Her horns have pricked them between the thighs,
Injecting their blood with warm honey
In the time of Nimue the Maiden.
I see in their rhythmic fulfillment
The path made clear for the soul's return,
For it is the holy time
When the Goddess pursues her lover
Whose sign is the morning star.

Now that I am growing old
I shall not make a pale mockery
Of taking to myself a husband
With the vow to love him until death,
For it is appointed to me
To sit at council with the elders,
To gaze into the dark still waters,
In the aweful, holy time
Of Anna the Mother of wisdom
Whose sign is the waning moon.

~Victor Anderson
'Thorns of the Blood Rose'