Morven's blog: "Poetry by me"

Born from motes of light stuff, dust from stars in space, given form and focus, a place, a name and face, we erupt into this body, from energy (or soul), full of life's intentions, both new and aeons old. With all our newest methods, we still wander seeking grace, enshrouded from our purpose, questioning our place. So we seek the answers inwards, in our vast subconscious lakes, For all our search remaining, mysterious; opaque.

What shines the light of harvest time; our sacred moon's embrace, Her glowing kiss, and silvery smile, Her ever-watching face. The light is golden: Harvest time, The season hears it's knell, I hope to be as brave as leaves, the brightest 'fore they fell. The time of light is passing quick beneath a hill of gold, And once green and tender shoots, now wither from the cold. I draw my cloak more tightly round: guard my secrets from the wind, And gather strength from Harvest's light, And take the moonbeams in.

The firelight will change you across the gulf of night, It moves within your vision, It casts a secret light. By the time that it is morning, you wont recall a thing except a dream of dancing figures twisting in a ring. Awake from dusk to dawn again, a sacrifice of rest, give yourself to the ancient ones, the darkness knows the best. Dance and sing, an endless world of mystery. Dance in a ring, shapeshifting your history.