Great Year
By: Shawn Rowland
In the void of creation between what is dark and bright
Weaving in and out effulgent ribbons of light
Forms of fire, the sparks of spirit
Forms of water, foundations of life
A cycle begins anew, a cosmic turn of celestial seasons
Awaking from slumber, a sapling grows
Like an acorn deep in black rich soil
Both warmth and cool bring forth the mighty tree
Spring returns in the Great Year, fruit grows on vines
Fruit that is a mighty spark, souls in slumber
Spring returns to the Great Year, rains of life fall
Rains of the world, forms not yet made, in wait
Acorns fall from the Great Tree, souls of might and worth
From the North they come, mighty in magic
From the North they come, deep in wisdom
From the North they come, truth in their wake
Ages pass, long ages of golden years and silver tongues
Years of games, and lore, of peace and plenty
Until time it was, to dance in the Great Year again
To forge the tools of worth making
A great spirit arose, after a time
A lord of life, a father of all, a mighty druid
By the harp he plays the seasons, and the moods of souls
By the cauldron he feeds all who seeks aid
A daughter he brought into the weave of being
A lady of great skill and endless heart
A mistress of the forge, a singer of the soul, a healer in
truth
To the irons she went and hammered a shape
Singing a song of life and beauty, of terror and awe
She brought strange metals and bright flames to weft and
woof
Hammering out a shape, a swirling shield of being became
The hammer struck, and faery songs echoed
The hammer struck and sparks flew to beyond infinity
A voice in the dark, an explosion of life
A rushing forth of fire and water
An aching groan of sprouting limbs
To life the little fruits awoke
To the worthy road and the doing of deeds
To the making of merry and the healing of ills
To the rememberance of golden years and silver spells
The mighty mistress wept in her birth cries
She saw in her art, fair and foul, worth and wickedness
Yet know she did, and the other Gods as well
That this opus of life is ever right and ever good
For the seasons must turn, and the trees must grow
That hunter will kill, and the folk will triumph
The cosmos will fade, and turn again in time
The Gods will rise, and in their art, life be thine.
