We womyn of the moon,
following in the footsteps of
the shamanic dreamers of the past,
hearts attuned to the sound of the drum
and the voice of the Watcher within,
know that, in every sister's herstory,
is an old wise woman with wrinkled cheeks,
a cackling laugh,
and earth-based knowledge
of how to Be,
how to be She.
In this grey-cloaked winter of the dream-time,
we must remember to water
our parched womanly roots,
hold fast to the place in the earth that is ours,
as the winds whip our branches,
and the icy cold seeps at the edges of our being.
There be danger in this domain,
if we try to stay.
As the days slowly lengthen,
we reverberate with the rhythm of the tides,
those wild winter waves which knock our hearts
off the shelf of safekeeping,
into the depths, where we rediscover
what we had forgotten
that we already know.
There will come a time, just before spring,
when a woman has to step from
the shore of the familiar,
into the ocean of womynkind,
open our eyes in the space
between the old world and the new,
the darkness and the light.
There be no old maps to guide you.
You must follow in trust,
with a wild, instinctual, wolfish Knowing,
from which you will emerge,
keen of eye, imbued with wisdom,
to mother the whole world.
A poem from 2014, shared with The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.