The Sunday Weekly poem arrives after a remarkably hectic week given the time of the year. I am not even sure why or how to describe such a procession of pleasant happenings as hectic. Perhaps I still have an extended post-birthday giddiness from my mock Mojito last Sunday. Yet, here we are descending into the dark pit of the year and I am feeling as frisky as Tigger. I love the alternating low sky with heavy rain, the astonishing sunsets and brief minutes of brilliant sunshine that are like the embers of a low fire.
No wonder the ancestors designated this the time of year to share memories and stories. It is averred that the Milesians, one of the early invaders of the island that we know as Ireland, said that ‘poetry is all memory.’ In an oral tradition that would be in a literal sense, but I am sure there are more metaphysical and metaphorical meanings to tease from that rubric.
In the twilight our group lit 350 candles in jam jars and placed them around the paths in the labyrinth to light our meditative walk around after sunset. John also lit a fire in the seating area in centre of the labyrinth for comfort. It was a night when you needed to wrap up well and wear a hat and gloves.
Surrender to amazement. Be found
in the lantern lit labyrinth surrounded
by velvet darkness. Above,a cloud scudded sky
is blanched by a pregnant moon. Remember.
Once again, you may find who you truly
are. Bewilderment may find you a miracle
so fervently beseeched it was forgotten.
You may breach the maze in your mind
in the night's blooming darkness, its welcome
silence, in the scrying for your future,
reading the embers in the need fire.
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved