Great Year

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.