BEAUTY III

Deft as the Fates, she plies her fingers,

her steps tracing the sacred circle,

drawing swivelling, swanlike strands

from each violet dusk and coral dawn.

Dreams and despair, joy and grief,

minutiae and immensities, she gleans

from the heart of every life:

The priestess' mellifluous incantation,

the ploughman's weary tread, 

frosted leaves, dewy coronets, Spring's

amble through glens atremble,

Summer's death throes, the minstrel's

gentlest tune, the slayer's imprecation,

man's toil, his leisured pursuits.

Silver strings, bright and tarnished alike,

she lays along the springlike Goddess'

vivifying varicoloured archway,

looping freshened yarn upon the cusps

of yonder blessed pearly crescent, 

for Truth shall complect these with her

own sublime threads.

Thus the Daughters of Time ally, for to

work Earth's chronicle into His

cosmic fabric, a veil of miracles woven

from evanescence that breathes

the worthiest of every earth and sky,

anointed with luminous thanksgiving,

a fitting garment for Eternity.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: THE SPIRIT OF THE RAINBOW (edited)

Source: nevsepic.com.ua

Artist: Henry Mosler

BEAUTY II

Leaves long gone still shine, their
discarnate green
lastingly allied to dark boughs 
that bore them.
The blunt wind, softly hoarse this
November dawn, sunders
the faintly berry haze upon the hill,
as a stifled sob
the pristine silence of 
an abandoned crypt.
A barn owl calls over the webbed 
purple-grey of veiled heather
staining the unvaryingly nocturnal air.
I marvel at the startling beauty
of the Goddess' tone poem,
of mists ravenous as an inferno,
of these swelling, soundless, ghostly
tides razing the land, 
consuming the last vestige 
of Autumn's breathing colours,
as though yearning to attain
the form and pulse of those who
surrendered them.
The Celestial Goldsmith drowses,
dreaming of the glory
of foregone Summers, heedless of
the ploughman's dispraise.
Yet Earth does not cavil, or tames
this impulsion, for she, too,
longs for respite from shadows and
storms, for slumbers replete with
visions of an immemorial past.
Life and Death must heed
cosmic concantenation.
The darkling mist shall gather its tales
of light, of a thousand and one lamps,
of Flame, Moon, Stars and Sun,
ere the liminal Season ends.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: ALLEGORY OF INCLINATION (detail)
Source: www.pinterest.com
Artist: Artemisia Gentileschi

BEAUTY

She dwells in a space and time apart

beyond the realms of birth and death.

She lingers in the silence between

Dawn and the lark's first note,

upon the nascent leaf,

in the heart that wears its glow,

binding soul to verdant soul.

Within the bud she bides awhile,

bids the Sun unfurl its petalled portal,

that she may glide upon

perfumed wafts to her radiant throne.

Her votaries ensoul her essence,

the Muses and Nymphs awaiting her 

in woods and bowers,

in fire and snow,

amid watery waves and airy.

She is the recondite harmony that

unites Light and the supernal, 

setting the spirit upon its journey

to cosmic purpose,

reaching out to the Good that remains

in a world that no more worships

her reflection, merely her replica

wrought of earthly gold.

She alone construes the absence

of those gathering fragments

of broken stars, whom indirection holds

in its dark spell.

She shall not forsake them,

this divine Intercessor whom life shall 

never touch, though she enfolds

the Universe.

Yet man may ponder her Grace,

imbibe her hues of First and Last Light,

as the Gods raise temples to Her

and scatter stars at Her altar.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: SPRING SCATTERING STARS

Source: nevsepic.com.ua

Artist: Edwin Howland Blashfield

NOVEMBER MIST

As the land and skies it turns and endures,
at once incomplex and unfathomable,
womb and tomb, 
drifting past the world, pausing over
cold, hardened earth,
as seekers ponder Time and Space,
the depths of change,
futures past and pasts returning,
truths foretold and dominions unknown.

The land claimed the Seasons' testimonials 
of pride and fealty.
I alone wander this derelict enclave, for I am
a native of November mists,
born of veins of liquid fire, 
baptised amid frosty showers, 
each crystal orb a microcosm, 
epicedium to bygone states of being and
paean to future wonders. 

At my birth, they descended, gliding as spirits
transiting the ether.
My soul shall hold eternal bond with their
gelid glister,
with yonder frozen pool upon marbled
blue-grey reaching out to my blood,
directing its tides, bidding me commit its
icy pledge to my life's page. 

I fill this place breath abandoned aeons ago,
this lonely hollow trusting that one 
such as I would seek it.
It does not know my journey, my lives and
deaths, merely my purpose.
My blood contracts and beats its pulse, 
incandescent pentimenti of my ancient cosmic
peregrinations stretching through mortal layers
into its core, clinging to its verges.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: A YORKSHIRE LANE IN NOVEMBER

Source: nevsepic.com.ua

Artist: John Atkinson Grimshaw

TO MY ANCESTOR

Your tombstone crowns this lonely woodland 

crested with amber this Samhain eve

as the Past glowing dark gold through the

mists of Time. Where lie your bones, 

lionhearted spirit, you who were denied your

kinfolk's mourning, your tribe's tears and prayers,

every death ritual, the rite of passage

into the Otherworld?

The living await a divine pause, for to convene

with the departed upon sacred, dusky

borderlands this liminal season. Yet I mourn you

with the dying light, with the setting Sun 

garbed in the living hues and fading warmth of

your endmost earthly breath. 

I would aspire to your power, to your wings, 

great warrior, as I seek the seed of inner victory,

this treasure you bequeathed me,

that your own blood bonded to my soul.

I would plumb the depths of the past

at your feet, of Earth's course the seers foretold.

I would battle with quill and ink, 

for to open minds and hearts, that we may preserve

Nature and Destiny, that Life and Truth may prevail. 

The beck sings softer, as the Portal opens; 

I hear Samhain's drums mark each sacred moment, 

Morrigan's mirth resounding through the glen, 

hissing embers, seething cauldron, 

Eternity's white pinions in the ageless dark. 

I shall weep no more,

for these blessed hours are brief. 

My sorrow I give unto Her who granted it birth. 

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image source: imgkid.com

THE SEER AT SAMHAIN

You would have me speak Fortune's

decree, evince the Future

in mere words? I could not unravel

cosmic design, nor could

phrases contain that which expands 

every moment.

Nay, I would exhort you heed Nature's

prescripts, for She alone construes

the Universe's will.

The Year burns brightest ere it dies; 

Time's dark vortex swallows

its golden ashes. The torch is passed

to tomorrow, 

to you and your brethren, kindling your 

deepest spark;

by its cleansing light must you disinter

the jewels within, 

the fire of ancient words, the song of 

voices silenced, that you

might sing. These fields bled, that your

vessel might not hunger,

the Seasons yielded up their hues, 

that your souls might blossom.

The North Wind carves your names

upon the land, 

as you spin the spire and leap the flames.

Autumn leaves bear your hopes

to the Great Below,

for to illumine the Goddess' dreams.

Death brings forth new beginnings;

Winter shall birth Spring; your tears shall

water the seeds of joys to come;

naught shall remain fruitless.

Still your heart and mind, bid your spirit

listen for the divine solacing

of the Oaks, for the wisdom of

Winds and Waves, for such they imparted

to the mages.

Thus shall you learn to seek the Light. 

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image source: www.pinterest.com

WARRIORS

The bonfire blazes on, drawing

tides of Memory into

its belly from earth and skies,

from winds and waters,

splashing a welter of vignettes

upon the chill night air.

Grandpa's words colour patterns

of flickering light and shade,

of voices and music, of battles

planned to the beat of

ancient drums. 

Fallen warriors rise, looking amid

the ferment upon their

blood that now courses through

my veins.

Swords and spears glow anew

with the zeal of intrepid

souls, whose march hallowed the

ground as the steps of

our spiral dance.

I hear the clash of iron, the fighter's

call to the brotherhood

for freedom, the seer's incantations

exalting the Horned God,

as all wilderness, wandering and

wildness.

The stars stood still upon their path,

it is said, surveying in awe 

these spirits that shone bright as they.

Far above the hordes they

gathered, for to guard the sleep of the

living and dead, glorying in

the sublimity of Life's sacred circle.

Warriors of myriad creeds 

live and sleep beneath the selfsame

stars, as The Great Wheel

turns. Our duties and debts we ken

afresh, as the ashes

reclaim Light's eternal lore.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image source: en.wikipedia.org