FOUR
POEMS
by
the late Reg Hinchcliffe
Reg,
a member of Y Plant Bran, was, in addition
to
being an inspired pagan poet, a photographer
by
profession. Here his accomplished and artistic
eye
was ever in evidence - as any who have seen
such
studies as "The Amanita" from Wath Wood
in
his native Yorkshire will confirm.
A
GLIMPSE OF THE KING
There's
a frost-muted stillness in the air
(Breath
vapour poised and shaped in a matrix of clarity)
As
Winter's Keeper paces by;
King
for a while over the Queendom.
Mighty
in white and black
Is
the lord of the Sterile Realm;
Watcher
in the long sleep.
Listen
- hear the whispers of his cloak
About
Him, stripped of Summer's lusty lure,
The
distilled elixir of the promise.
Do
you too gaze high on the silver boat?
Watcher
in the snow,
Impatient,
yet again
To
wear the greenwood mask and join
Your
children's games
At
Rebirth time.
SAMHAIN
Night
of the dead - black crowed darkness forming the bridge.
Silent
clamour of the returning horde fills the night
But
no space.
As
we, hosts in our turn, greet in love
The
Mighty dead.
All
is life on the Feast of the Dead,
On
Samhain.
The
sword, flashing candle-glow, salutes the Guardians,
Forms
the Circle, or builds again the Castle.
Bridges
lowered, we wait, welcoming, expectant,
Feeling
again the surge as they cross.
Now
with us again - the Clan.
Life
force quickens on the Feast of the Dead;
On
Samhain.
Fill
the cup - fill it in honour
Of
our kin.
Ours
By
choice and right.
We'll
talk gravely, laugh merrily as kinsmen will
In
kinship.
Keep,
with them, the ancient festival.
Out
of time is the Time of the Dead;
Is
Samhain.
Riding
no chill wind, this merry crew,
The
Dead - and the Lord of the Dead;
This
rich warmth reaches the soul of us encumbered in flesh.
Tonight
we warm our cold clay at the fire
Of
their caring.
Tonight
the promise is renewed and our spirits drink
The
Life Force
With
our beloved dead,
At
the hour of the Dead,
On
the Eve of Samhain.
THE
DOLMEN
I
am the God who waits
In
the dead of the year, in the dark of life,
At
the end of the lane where no birds sing;
There
will you rest again in My hand.
Be
fearless to look upon My death's head
For
I have other faces
And
another hand to give again that which I take.
Come
gladly when I call.
The
Great Mother holds My promise
And
no thieves shall steal from you,
Nor
evil ones harm you as you sleep - In My hand,
Remember,
you trusted Me in the Spring-green child places
Finding
enchantment.
Found
Me merry in Summer attendance when you wed.
Feared
not to meet Me in the Autumn forest hunt.
Don't
shrink from me in the Winter snow.
Have
you not seen life returned to Earth
Safe
from My keeping?
Will
I do less for you?
I
am the Great Lord of Death who waits for you.
Have
faith in life and trust in Me.
A
YULE JINGLE
So
there you are, in the same old jar,
Embers
of embers back so far;
Consecrated
by the rite -
"Take
thee light, burn thee bright" -
Of
how many Yule logs, flamed and fed
Bythe
ashes of last year's mighty dead?
So
"Merry Meet" to sleeping dogs
Of
flame of flames, of other logs.
Fearless
not to let you lie,
For
the Wheel turns on, though the sparks may die,
Of
how many Yule logs flamed and fed
By
the ashes of last year's mighty dead?
So
there you are, black as tar,
Wait
a year in the same old jar.
________________________
(Sleep on, old
friend, till next we meet - Gareth)
POETRY
PAGE