Corn King, come and dance
Over fields and meadows and heaths.
Beckon to Sun and call on yourself,
Crowned with the harvest
And sacred to Earth.
Lead us in the eternal circle
To honour Our Mother
Who gives and receives.
With steady step through golden autumn
Set yourself free.
Turn one last time
And sing us your song,
Echoing far through open fields,
Before your steps turn to Our Mother
And your light to darkness yields.
Moving across my face.
My face falling,
Like crumbling mountains.
And each corn of sand
Dancing like standing stones,
Trembling in shared solitude
To hear your voice.
Like the moon forever kindling,
Casting one blind and one seeing eye.
Like the sea, coming and going,
A mirror pool of reflection,
Where from the deep it grows,
Rippling through the ocean,
Calling water to water,
One salty drop to another,
Dark as a shade of night,
Moist to squeeze the wetness out.
My fingers a sieve –
Splinters of wood, perchance a mighty tree.
Glinting pebbles, a mountain long ago.
Tiny bones, gossamer wings,
A frog, a firefly perhaps.
Ages of life running through my fingers.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10)