The Druid Moontide Retreat 2003
Poetry, artwork and photographs inspired by the
Retreat of September 2003 ...
Webs
Made visible by dew drops
Which glisten and shine and shimmer
Like rare diamonds
Upon the silky threads of their being.
Stretched like dreamcatchers
Between twigs and leaves and branches
Or hanging like upturned parachutes
In the meadow grasses.
Their deadly intent, their fatal purpose
Forgotten for a moment
Their life gathering, life giving existence
Eclipsed by their shimmering beauty.
Iodhadh (7 Sept 2003) |
There Was A Tree ... a story
written by a Moontider
Forest Floor by Avey
Notes
on the Retreat ... by Moonwillow
Moon Drift
Mind drifting, Moon drift
Lost on a silver night.
Mist-carried to strange lands
Of silver clouds and frosted light.
Candle lit evening talking
Laughing, crying, sighing, dying.
Like fire embers falling
In soft shadows calling.
Mist-lost in silver night.
Cold frost in ancient light.
Frost drifting, lost drift,
Mind drifting moonlit night.
Angela Grant 6/9/2003 |
Now
Time has no meaning here.
Gone is the rush and bustle,
No need to hustle.
Time is paused,
The second hand waiting.
No rush, just hush.
No boss to appease,
‘sorry I’m late, forgive me please!’
No need.
Other World Time is here,
Allowing real thoughts to be clear.
Souls speaking out loud,
As minds follow cloud.
Simply – breathe, and Know.
Piglet 0903 |
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Mud Dance by Mandie |
Morning
Bleary mortal eyes,
Unfocussed, glued with sleep,
Unseeing of here and now.
Instead, behold shadows
Of other realms and times.
Blinking and confused,
Shades merge and twirl,
Smoke trails drifting,
Forming half-seen people,
Places as yet unvisited
Show themselves but briefly,
Before sunrays drown them,
And wakefulness forgets.
Piglet 0903 |
Journal Notes ... by Sue
On a hill,
In a Forest,
A beautiful beech,
Majestic and large,
Fallen in the Winds;
Boughs torn and trunk shattered,
Splinters of white on grey scattered,
Across the ground trunk twisted and split open it lays,
The forest Landscape changed,
Other trees – Oak and Horse chestnut wounded by its falling,
But within the cleared Glade young sprouts grow anew,
Beech and Oak drink in the new given Sun and thrive;
But what of the fallen?
Within her trunk new life stirs and she’s made anew,
Within her wounds octagons of paper form,
And small lives begin as the woodland Hornets move in.
Dane
Moontide Retreat 2003 |
Holycombe by Star |
Initiation
At dawn
She slipped off her skin.
Feeling the cool air breathe on her,
She found a bed of bracken
And a mossy lover.
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She bathed in ochre soil,
She dived in golden sun.
Then silently, joyfully,
Took his embrace
Sarah Allen
Sept 2003 |
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