Eastern windchant, shining Maiden,
To your faith I lift my blade.
Silver spirit of the stormfront,
Clearing dustclouds with a word,
Bring your eagles, books and yarrow
From your dawn-washed mountain tower;
Guide my mind to search for knowledge
As I walk between the worlds.
Southern flamedance, fierce proud Amazon,
To your strength I lift my wand.
Crimson spirit of the oven,
Melting, tempering, forming anew,
Bring your dragons, tools and poppies
From your noon-burnt desert forge;
Lead my hands to willful action
As I walk between the worlds.
Western seakiss, mighty Mother,
To your love I lift my cup.
Blue-green spirit of the wellspring,
Swimming tides of sorrow and joy,
Bring your dolphins, food and mosses
From your twilit forest home;
Fill my heart with your compassion
As I walk between the worlds.
Northern earthdream, wily Elder,
To your sight I lift my stone.
Gray-brown spirit of the shuttle
Weaving ancient webs of life,
Bring your cattle, drums and ivy
From your midnight cloister cave;
Lend me wisdom through your vision
As I walk between the worlds.
The circle now is cast around me,
Here I turn both out and in.
Here is where my truth shines clearest,
Here is where I seek to learn;
Here I find my love and guidance,
Here is where I work my will.
Here I stand to hold the center
Walking now between the worlds.
by Sycamore Seadragon, (c)1996
Oh, sing for the Horn and the King of the Corn
And death from which new life will grow.
Tally the sum for the winter to come
And see how you reap what you sow.
Stack up the sheaves and then rake up the leaves;
Gather sweet apples and berries.
Take heart in your hoard, sail bravely toward
The hardship the winter snow carries.
Oh, laugh in the hall as we shut out a squall
And stare at the embers compelling.
Tell us a tale over cider or ale
And spare no detail in the telling.
Stoke up the flames as you whisper the names
Of ones you have loved who are gone.
Join new friends and old in defying the cold
And know that the Circle rolls on.
Oh, dream of the night and a legend of flight;
Recover the wildness you lost.
Chase the lights boreal, trace incorporeal
Fairy rings frozen in frost.
Dance with bare trees as they moan in the breeze
And let the wind make your bones ring.
Seep into the ground on a journey profound,
To rest and make ready for spring.
by Sycamore Seadragon, (c)1995
Marty Hale-Evans
marty@apocalypse.orgReturn to Marty's Main Page