Equinox

In the long dark the river flooded, gates blew open,
overflow billowed out across farm soil
staining crops,
the air raged in valleys, swollen bursts of breath
carrying old texts
of a creature who raises her voice, spinning on bare foot,
palms to the sky,
owning her thanking song.  
 
It is steady
as if drumming, beaten through the heels of her feet and smashed wrists.  
It is steady
despite the fierce change in the earth,  
in the stomach of her.
She is not afeared.
She carries her lifeblood through the fields, over dying grain, along stone tracks. She  
takes to running, feet casting thunderclouds of dust  
In her wake.  
Her white dress is torn from her body,
leaving only a map of her life, by ripening holly  
bushes that harbour the temple.
 
She's greeted  
in a deciduous clearing by a building of cob,  
hand dusted in apricot,
sound of rounds  
pour out to fill her cup. The scent of ginger  
and fresh bread  
and curry  
leak into her nostrils,
soak her tongue. Beyond a plum curtain  
there sits a circle of warriors,  
knowers of the path she treds.
The colours of unashamed crimson bleeds  
into dyed silks, crochet, grandmother's shawl that form an almost veil above the tribe.
The abundance of cushions and blankets and candle light feels as if laying in Mother's lap.
Raspberry leaf tea is served to her
in women worked cups,
with honey, fresh notebooks adorn the floor -
dried rosemary lay in wicker bowls
for working into the hands.
Her womb is heavy and full,
gifted with the presence of home.
 
A closing ritual is shared, secrets locked in the chamber,
hands, hair and minds are touched,
she retracts, gifted with the wisdom
to dance in this season alone  
once more, all thorns and leafless trees,
sleep mimicking her sleeping,
she steps out
on a bright Autumnal day.