Nine are My natures
through many spheres.
Who dares meet the sow and her nine?
Lleu Llaw Gyffes was a tasty feast
at the foot of the pine.

It was the son of the Hazel
who brought me to shore.
Then was sown wheat and barley -
bread and beer for women and men.
Amathaon's store.

But best is the ferment of the bees:
only their honey shall sweeten
the mead in the high cup.
Best for the honey-isle
a dragon who drinks deep of the draught.

And my fine eagle,
fosterling of the Wood-Seer:
he shall himself endure,
baiting on a high tree
'til a ladder of words shall lure.

My bright one, My dark one,
contentious to the end,
brothers of one womb,
I am your beginning,
and your sure doom.

In the northern court of Don,
my lawful chair is set:
giver of wisdom's gift,
keeper of the caers,
weaver of the weft.

My shifting fingers
reckoning all rents,
counting each herb and flower
to their own potency,
shall stew to the hour.

And ninefold the waves
shall batter the land.
The cauldron overset
shall poison the honey isle,
its swift horses fret.

In every turning or the caer,
in every shaping's shift -
I am the Mistress of the Brew,
Ceridwen of the Chair,
in acorns, milk and dew.


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