Cylch Blodeuwedd

ar Blodeuwedd

Into the heat of noon,
A midsummer melting molten gold,
Precious flowers in a field of parched long grass,
I danced.

This was my fashioning-day,
When wands and wills gathered up the wild
And crushed the unknown and unfelt to a beautiful form,
I feared.

Beauty stained with force,
Marked with doom’s ominous woading,
For the sake of usurping a mother’s grieved and just desire,
I fell.

Petals plucked one by one,
Like a harvest of false hope and hidden anger,
Nature fell trapped and tangled into a body of mortal mud,
I died.

Death to the rising sun of joy,
Birth into a confinement of strange custom and feat,
Death and birth in one burst of awareness as
I became maiden.

Into the loss of world,
A confusion at the new senses of limitation,
Heart became choked, voice became lost to the barren land within,
I dwelt.

Who now remembers my beginning?
Who now reflects upon my baneful birth?
If you question the owl in the yew tree,
You will find the answer in the seed three.
Actions set into motion feed upon actions.
If you question what happened on Gwyl Canol Gaeaf,
Then look to the day when life un-naturally became a wife.