By: Andrew Turner

"The air resonates with the sweet rose-tint of your lips,"

I said to Her, and I wondered that She really knew what I meant,

I wondered that She ever realized how Her hips---

Two subtle curves, smooth, like the finely-polished nascent

Face of a convex mirror, or the moon, gibbous, for which ships

Of moments more ancient than thought once sailed, riggings rent

By the warm and sultry breath of a Helen or Cressida---

How Her hips could make me dizzy; and that glint, that media,

That reflection of poetry that shone from Her eyes;

Of how Her voice tightened my throat; of how I quaked in Her sighs

And the expectation of a mere glance. And I remember, once, how She

Whispered something in my ear, the moist warmth of Her words pregnant

With confidence and the excitement of telling a secret which would be

Only for the two of us. Yes, I smiled, Yes, my Goddess, yes, I love you, I sent

With my heart, I love you, my Dana, my Hecate, my Artemis, my Astarte.

And She lent to me a glimpse, a gleam, a short, bright glance, the hint

Of Her love; and the rocks and upthrust stones, like a gimbals for the hilltop,

Radiated with Her love and blessing; the infant pines and elders, the wheat crop,

High and wavering in her lavender-scented breath, cried for Litha and the Holly King.

And the sharp-sweet scent of old leaves and new moss enraptured me, the faerie ring

Wrapped about my heart and encircling my soul with Her shining sorcery.

I was fain to worship Her, and as Great Artemis slipped across the eastern sky

And kissed with her waxing brilliance the ancient peaks and hilltop groves, the seas

Shimmering as molten silver, hunting high across a field of flaxen clouds, my

Heart leapt from my breast and soared beneath the dusty star-prints of the Lady.

"I have been with thee from the beginning," She whispered through the oak boughs,

And I wept for what I had thought to question; and I lay upon her breast, my heart

In rhythm with the pulse of the dirt and nettles and lichens, the light of Cernunnos a row

In my soul, an uproarious joy that warmed the spirit with strong memory and the start

Of bright fires of celebration, and the circle sang, called, lulled with love of the blessed Lady.