I’m the last priestess

I’m the last priestess of a dying goddess.

Now I hear her moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops, but she She used to speak to aloud, clear and resonant. Believers came here. We held power, a bright stone in our hands.

We ate well – offerings rolled in – gold and silver from the rich, baskets of fruit, or a white cheese from the poor. It makes me hungry to think of it.

Then a new god came, angry and greedy. His priests called us witches. The people stopped coming here.

One by one, we left or died. I’m the last. I should go, too, but then who would I be? And who would remember the great goddess?

No. I stay. I’ll bless you for a goose egg, an apple. I’ll listen for her voice. I will remember.

It’s prosery night at dVerse.Lillian is hosting, and gives us a quotation from Carl Sandberg’s Jazz Fantasia. dVerse is a poetry site, but once a month we dip our toes into the world of prose – 144 words of flash fiction, containing a quotation from a poem. Today’s line is: moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops

 

Crone

I am the last of the three
and the power in me
is the power of time
that crumbles all,
the power of root,
that carves all,
the power of wind,
that wears all.

I will walk through
the dark of the year,
and you will hear
my footsteps echo
on hard ground,
and my words will
whisper in the whirling wind.

I am the last of the three,
the one who bears
the winding sheet,
the one who stands
in the doorway,
and my strength is
the strength of the
tree enduring,
the fire burning,
the storm raging,
the night consuming.

Happy Samhain, Halloween, Day of the Dead, whatever. Bjorn has asked us to write from the point of view of a monster. I’m paying tribute to the third, and darkest, aspect of the triple goddess – the Crone. Hard to love a crone.

Head over to dVerse for some spooky Halloweeny poetry…

NaPoWriMo 19 – a creation myth

The Orchard

I see her standing
in her orchard,
one small pip,
shiny brown, resting
in her right hand.

All around, the trees stretch out
as far as far, and there is birdsong
and the drowsy drone of sleepy wasps.

Apple trees don’t grow true from seed.
She knows this. And the fact
that you must plant 10,000 pips
to win the prize: a tree worth keeping –
an apple worth the eating.

So, she’s half laughing at herself,
but plants it anyway,
pressing it gently
into the nurturing soil.
Then waiting. She has time.

Warming it with the wild sunshine
of her joy. Watering it
with the soft raindrops of her love.

Dreaming that this could be the one
the tree that grows the perfect orb –
green flecked, and russet,
maybe clouded, wet with dew,
smelling of wholesomeness.

An apple to be held gently
and with respect – the flesh
of apples bruises easily –
an apple to be shared,
sweet as laughter,
with a tang of something longed for.
An apple to be loved.

I see her sitting, waiting,
in her orchard, patient
as eternity. Trees stretch out
all around. Blossom glints white
here, see, and there, shining
in the great darkness of infinity.

NaPoWriMo has reached day 19, and is asking for a creation myth. I hope this works as one. 

Scar Quadrille – for dVerse

Scaramouche takes flight
In a skylight currach
Skin stretched tight
Over spars of bone
Following the starmap
Scar map, far map
Scanning the horizon
For traces
Of the Amazon
Seeking out the pathway,
Runway, gateway,
The goddess triple walking
Who makes herself
Each night.

 

This is a quadrille for dVerse. We are asked to write about scars…dangerous territory. A currach, by the way, is a light weight boat used traditionally in the west of Ireland, made of hide stretched over a wooden frame, and then tarred.