Thursday, August 11, 2005

The Call

The night calls to me.
To be out of this lovely room.
Into the wild darkness
under a crescent moon.

The breeze catches my nightgown.
I float upward into the clouds.
I hear voices and drums.
a flicker of firelight.

I hover near a campsite.
I see them…
Gathered around,
telling stories and mysteries
of forgotten times.

I settle on a nearby branch, to listen.
They call to the shining ones.
A voice answers on the wind.

Here and now is revealed.
The present is the time to act.
I watch sacred rites
and hear ancient words.

There is an ornate bell.
The old one,
rings its mellow pitch.
The fire blurs and I am gone.

I wake in my bed.
What a strange dream.
And there, on the nightstand
the brass bell gently burnished
from much handling.

I take it in my hands.
And see a carved word, Diana.
A crescent moon design
weaves in and out intricately.

And then I remember,
The Gypsies.
The ones who remember
The Moon Goddess.


At 11:26 PM, Blogger Luna said...

Heather, you kinda inspired this poem when you mentioned, gypsies in the glade. I'll see you there!

At 12:09 AM, Blogger Imogen Crest said...

A dream within a dream...

At 12:29 AM, Blogger Leonie Bryant said...

And you do write beautiful poetry!
Your imagery is powerful.

At 3:37 AM, Blogger Heather Blakey said...

Luna!!!! This is just stunning. I know that the Amazon Queen is going to love this performance. Brilliant darling. If you wander down to the glade by the stream you will find a gypsy encamped there.
The gypsy is welcoming visitors.

At 4:07 AM, Blogger Gail Kavanagh said...

and beautiful songs such as this...

At 7:23 PM, Blogger Unknown said...

Your song reminds me of my visit to the Fairy Well. I must visit this camp site you speak of, and the gypsies in the glade. Maybe they will know where I was when I went missing for a day.


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