I am the heart of England, a sacred place, a place of dreams, invocations, insight and prayer.
Around me the veils between worlds are thin, those who hold the knowledge may journey to Ynys-Witrin or yet further to Caer sidi in the realm of faerie.
Pilgrims, worshipers and students have come to me over the ages and found solace on my shores. Many have climbed to the ring of stones on my summit and followed the maze in my depths seeking their own spiritual paths.
Some say I am but myth but others remember and seek the way across the lake and through the mists to come to me still.
I have been home to Cerridwen, Merlin, Vivian and Arthur. Preistess, Druid and Christian, I welcome all People of the Earth who have the means to find me.
Avalon
Oh Avalon, dear Avalon,
What secrets do you hold?
In mystery, of legends,
What stories can be told.
Oh Avalon, sweet Avalon,
We’re drawn to visit you.
To partake in your energy.
That’s earthborn, good and true.
Oh Avalon, safe Avalon,
A place that’s lost in time.
The Tor stands proud and watches,
On a hill that we must climb.
Oh Avalon, great Avalon.
In our hearts you can be found.
Your spirit touches all of us,
By your code we must be bound.
Honoured thanks to Myrddin for this poem.
Earth teach me stillness as the grasses are stilled with light.
Earth teach me suffering as old stones suffer with memory.
Earth teach me humility as blossoms are humble with beginning.
Earth teach me caring as the mother who secures her young.
Earth teach me courage as the tree which stands alone.
Earth teach me limitation as the ant which crawls on the ground.
Earth teach me freedom as the eagle which soars in the sky.
Earth teach me resignation as the leaves which die in the fall.
Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.
Earth teach me to forget myself as melted snow forgets its life.
Earth teach me to remember kindness as dry fields weep with rain.
~A Ute Prayer
Under the Moon
Have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;
Nor Ulad, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.
Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinivere;
And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn,
And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.
Because of something told under the famished horn
Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
W B Yeats
Myspace Layouts - Myspace Editor - Image Hosting