Name:
Location: Shire of Trisel, Trimaris

I am in my late forties, a proud husband, father, and a bard. I am a book pedlar by trade and a bookman by vocation. I am a romantic, a realist, and a Believer. I like a good joke, and a bad one even better. I admire all ladies for the innate beauty that is in each one, but my heart is sworn to the fair and gentle Lady Lorelei, who has consented to share my life and my name.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Lady Rowena

If I were not a believer I probably would be a pagan. The ritual,the mysticism , and the cultural undertones appeal to me. As with many Believers, however, I wonder if many Pagans really understand what they profess to have faith in, and why their ancestors believed as they did. But that is a matte for a long essay, not the introduction to a poem.


Lady Rowena

Lady Rowena, in your robes and your beads,
With your potions and powders, feathers and seeds,
Playing at magic you don’t understand,
Heedless of what you hold in your hand.

Modern-day wise-woman channeling power
From earth, rock and field, fountain and flower,
Unleashing the forces that one ruled with might
In a past age of fear and dread of the night.

The old druids acted with caution and awe
Of the power they wielded, and heed the law
Of sowing and reaping. They tempted not fate;
Knew better to close than to open such gate.

Power has no color, not black and not white;
Cares not what it touches, destroys without spite;
Flows out like rough water, seeks its own ground,
And utterly alters whate’er it finds round.

Yet you in your hubris seek out the old ways,
Thinking you turn back to honester days.
Hearken before you read lore that was lost,
The first law of power; uncountable cost.

The old power smiles at your covens and rites.
Your offerings amuse; supplication delights.
You’re tempted with whispers of knowledge and lore.
It knows who serves who; you’ll crawl back for more.

The oak trees grow twisted in ancient groves now,
And poisonous mistletoe clings to each bough.
The old magic’s locked away where it belongs,
In earth stone and tree, and remembered in songs.

Rowena, your pentagrams, candles and bells
Illumine a portal bound up with strong spells.
Before you hasten to open such door,
Ask yourself hy there are druids no more.

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