The Crone

My lady
I think we may have met before,
long since gone, in othertime.
It is like to me that I knew thee then,
and it may be a slender thread of silver guides me here.
*
Still, the Maiden waits the turning wheel,
with bated breath, and beating breast, to embrace Her Lord.
As Mother, down she calls the light,
and bears it forth as yarn, or corn, or newborn.
All grist for the wheel.
The Old God goes ever on in death and life,
undone and unaccomplished.
Only to be conjured yet again,
to accomplish and to remain unfinished.
Crone, what of ye, who knows these things,
and more forbye.
Was not it you, who waited.
Was not it you, who called and bore forth.
Was not it you, who conjured.
*
I think ye know the One,
Light handfast with Darkness.
She will not be gainsaid, forsworn or thwarted,
and She has made ye, more like unto Her.
Blessed Be.