Greystone
(Beltaine on Cramond Isle)

By grey stone and silver light,
fading into green,
the golden lord to rest has gone,
the time is evening.
The tide is high,
ne'r ebbing, yet to flow,
the earthen bridge is way head deep,
there is no place to go.
The air does rise as wind does fly,
upon this seaward face,
and chilly turns the nightime,
to isolate the place.
A tiny fire by hand is cared,
from flint and spark and flame,
its smoky warmth and feeble glow,
puts all of fear to shame.
The greater sphere is cast around,
by witching hand and true,
whilst ever all around about,
the deeper darkness grew.
A kindly place of velvet dark,
to work or jest or play,
the world has spun, the wheel has turned,
yet again to May.
The night drives on the laughter gone,
yet loth to sleep are drawn,
and fain to rise in early light,
to welcome back the dawn.
The golden lord one eyebrow raised,
at first upon the brow,
then from the mist at once dismissed,
laid gold along the bough.
This turning wheel of everything,
this rushing wheel of life,
the bristling shield or wounding sword,
of ecstasy and strife.
How other can we feel it,
or in darkness see the glow,
love and light by hand and mind,
Is all we need to know.