by G. R. Grove
Summer’s Queen, cauldron-keeper,
magic-maker, she who knows,
all that grows is your garden
and not hard for you its love.
All above the dark earth now —
fruit-bowed, blooming, sun-warmed, bright —
your delight is, pleasure keen —
blossom’s sheen, snow-pale petals,
tender nettles (sharp their sting),
thorn-ringed red-black berries sweet.
Bleating lambs, white and fleecy
please the ear and please the eye;
skies of blue, pure, unbounded,
loud resound with sky-lark’s song.
Cuckoo’s gong, night-jar’s whirring
stir the woodlands, echoing
through the twilight — softly dreaming —
seeming endless, summer’s lake.
Magic-maker, slow you wander,
plunder gathering as you go,
knowing well what herbs you need —
seed and stem and root and leaf.
Heath and moor, field and forest
best they give you for your brew —
New-made wisdom, poet’s mead
leads to words and visions wild.
Child reborn (rough your birthing) —
earth and water, fire and air,
fair and foul will test him then;
when you catch him, set him free.
Sea-borne salmon, rivers roam,
foam-flecked, storm-kissed, by your art,
heartless, gentle, him you’ll bring
singing homeward, true-made bard.
Hard your teaching, Ceridwen —
Cauldron-Keeper, Summer’s Queen!
