Mother Sun: A Poem for Aine

With torches high, the women step
a-weaving down the hill.
They sing of the gold woman
taken against her will
who turned him to a gander
and plucked a silver quill.
With it, she wrote this story.
With it, she writes it still.

With flaming mane the red mare’s
hooves ring across the sky —
She sparks in the wild ocean
and lights the birds on high.
And green ones turn their faces
with buds an open eye —
until she seeks her stable
and rest, a twilight sigh.

You say she is the mountain
you say she is the earth —
but she lies not beneath you,
the one who gave you birth.
For burning is her raiment
and molten is her worth —
the planets are her dowry,
as she shines in her mirth.

So come and bear your torches
and climb upon her hill
and sing of the gold woman
who lights upon your sill
and rests with her old lover
the sea, his toss and till.
With him, she wrote this story.
With him, she writes it still.

sun

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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One Response to Mother Sun: A Poem for Aine

  1. David Miley says:

    Nice one. I was on vacation and missed this one.

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