Ode to Herne
Lies a selkies dream of oak trees daubed in golden mistletoe.
Tales tell of sweet honey nectar,
Drawn from parasitic roots leaves and berries.
Mabon be the child,
That on the day of its kindling,
Be bathed thrice in the sacred pools of Annwn.
Harpies call to those such as these,
That ponder plant life and poetic in their searching,
Seek the gift of the Golden tongue.
Taliesin’s tempered telling, told of tales,
Twinkling in twilights tasting.
Amergin quelled with rosemary rhymes,
Of gifts to be taken,
With those who dare to dawdle down dingily dells,
Of dew drops dripping from the lips of the Queen of Fay.
You my Queen of all hearts seeking,
Who’s bed of pettaled pou porri pours pleasures on my thick skin.
You the Queen of summers game ,
Wild huntress of the morning.
Rise up from your Fairie fort and shower me in blessings.
Wide eyed wandering wonderers of willow trees winding their spindling vines,
Through nooks and crannies of old wives tales telling.
Deep into this sodden earth and boulders of basilled breads burnt backing,
Betrothing of their making.
Worms of wooded wild wilderness,
Intent on investigating.
Baal and Bacchus,Dionysius dreaming,
Arianrod, Hecate ,Demeter’s distant calling.
Lead us through this Devic dance onwards towards your dwelling
And there beside the Queen of Fay,
My bed lies for the making.