From here on in, I’m standing with the crones,
the cold-eyed, clear-eyed women
who stand in judgement. Yes,
I’m saying “No” and “Stop” and
“That’s enough”, I’m sweeping out
the old shit, the old cobwebbing mess
of sweet and pretty and compliant.
I have bled, and fed, and shed
so many tears now. Now it’s time
to take a stand, to accept
consequences. I’m calling
wolf and raven, I’m calling up
old blood, old wisdom – wait and see.
I’m offering the wintering power
of waiting, holding on. Tenacity.
I’m seeking out the austere beauty
of bone and rock, of leafless branch.
I will not soothe you. It’s time now
to embrace the anger of old women,
the fierce, cold flame, the pointing finger,
“I can’t be doing with it”. Stop. I’m doing right,
not doing nice. I’m holding firm.
The wisdom of the crone
lies in the soil, in time, in darkness.
That’s where the seeds are planted,
the seeds that send out roots
and tender shoots, and grow
to be great trees. Bury it deep.
Brendan is hosting at earthweal this week, and asks us to think about what mythic mentors we need now. I did a goddess poetry workshop just before lockdown, and again during lockdown, and I’m pretty sure I need to work on my inner Crone. This is my tribute to the strong old women. You might recognise some of them.