Odes for Rhiannon

Posted by Heron Heron
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Words at a Shrine

Rhiannon, it is your presence
That brings me here
Not to meet you, for you are always near,
But to greet you in this special place
Set up for you to mark your presence
In my life.

I feel you close; your hair,
Your leather harness as you ride
And I ride with you, near and far;
As you approach, go by, and onward,
Pass to Otherness yet remain
A living presence to my senses
Even when far – never more
Than a breath away from here.

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Heron Heron
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Intimations

Palpitations at hoofbeats pounding – near or far? –
at the limits of listening,
susurrations of your birds’ singing;
such shifts of awen’s gifts you bring.
Heron Heron
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A stillness and a quietness of contemplation suddenly illuminated by a flash of brightness,
a familiar shift into vision:

I get a sense of you passing, your horse stepping on
And you wearing not the golden silks of the story
But a leather surcoat that is tangible, its scent and its texture
As I follow, not on horseback but on foot, and you remaining
Just as the story has it, the same distance in front of me
Though I walk and you ride.
                                Then at my call
You turn and smile : like the lifting of a veil it is to me
Before you ride on leaving me the gift of your presence
In the still air that your passing troubled and which now
Contains you and is contained by you in one world
                                 And in the other.
Heron Heron
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Hearing The Birds of Rhiannon on a Stony Beach

Hold the stone tight in your hand
Hear it sing, the singing stone
Hear her birds singing sweetly
In the high notes; in the low notes
Croaking, cawing. Modulations
High to low :

The stone is hot
The stone is cold
The stone .....

It has a life of its own, leaves your hand
When you have heard what you will hear
Then only questions:

Where is the stone now?
Why does the song fade
Where does the horse ride over the sea?

This now all there is to hear:
Hoofbeats on the waves of the sea,
Gulls calling, gulls calling
No more sweet sounds, no more harsh sounds
Woven together by her birds
But the gulls still calling, still calling
Far out over the empty sea.

So the vision fades, the music segues
To silence, to an echo in the mind,
On the wind, caught in the sound of the waves.

Yet still there’s a presence, sensed by my side,
With me always, never absent, a witness
To visions, singing birds, passing horses
That come and go between the worlds.

She never leaves me, my constant companion.
Heron Heron
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Rhiannon and Pwyll

At Springtide she came astride a white steed,
Shifted her veil as a bride.
Feasting he sat at her side,
Gifted Gwawl, ill-advised!
Heron Heron
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image

Rhiannon’s Roses

This second flowering has come after the drought
It is for her they bloom
In the late light of the year
On spiny stems or on her altar.
Heron Heron
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Rhiannon's Apples

457C9CF8-F2D9-4193-9E2A-8BE8B1B31671

Apples shed into the shade of the tree
Such is the season’s trade
Between sunshine and shadow
Cast across light’s pellucid glow

As the Grey Mare passes, September’s spent
Fruit grounded in October’s
Splendour, her reins passed over
To crooked fingers of Elder Mother.

 
Heron Heron
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{a continuation of 'Rhiannon's Apples' .....}


Elder Tree

Dark elderberries hang on twisted boughs
Unpicked and shrivelled,
Bare twigs twist to point the way
That turns upon itself a shadow veil
Shielding the world she is leaving behind
As she rides the grey mare
Fading to grey mist for a season
Seeking her fair form far away
Where he expects her, her shadow lord
Conjuring the woven ways
Through mists of his own making
Shaping a path through shapeless drifts
Each one receding through layers of world
Intricately dispersing
Wider to bring her to world’s end:
To not-world’s becoming.


…*…


Another watches her go as strewn leaves lie
On sodden forest floors
Bereft of shelter, mysteries
Of dappled green depth emptying.



Samahin Cover
Samhain Scene : From a cover for The Waxing Moon
by Pat Blackmore    


..
.


/ \
/


 
Heron Heron
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At the Dark o the Moon following Samhain

By Orion's light
At the Dark of the Moon
Now the hawthorn tree is bare

As the Hunter’s spoor is laid tonight
A shadow passes through the veil
Of Annwfn on a Grey Mare.

Rigantona, roses wither on your altar;
As winter falls across the land
I’ll keep your vigil here.