Ostara

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It feels late this year for daffodils
Mine are empty of colour outside
And so I bring them in from the supermarket
Place them in several vases 
Gaze into their golden crowns
Feel the pull of their birth canals
And smile at the six translucent hellos
I’m here they say, look at me

There is not a breeze or bee in sight
Very soon they will wilt
Heads falling like bereft queens
Fit only for the dark of the compost 
While longing for the light of the sun
No children will emerge from this bell
No quickening can be felt
Within these four walls

And so on a rare mild day 
I step out into a garden in anticipation
Searching for signs of Ostara
Goddess of Spring and find
A maiden with eggs in open hands
Waiting patiently for union 
With a horned youthful sun
Playful and life-giving

Under the breeze a warmth
Caresses my skin and 
An earthy scent finds my soul 
Celandine greets me from beneath
The hedgerow where hawthorn
Explodes with electric green vitality
And the soft apple blossom bud
Patiently waits to express herself

Like the boxing spring hare 
The seasons are shape-shifting
Finding a rhythm that none of us know
Dancing to a karmic symphony 
Pleading for the union of light and dark
And all the while the enduring cycle
Of rebirth is right here 
Urging us forward

© orlabeaton
19/3/24

Roar

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In need…
The roar of the sea
And that’s me
I’m right there

I need to take off my skin
And swim
I don’t root like the trees do
I need the big blue
It’s true

I need salt in my veins
The sun at my back
Shiny pebbles in my toes
And the ocean’s embrace

I need…
The roar of the sea
And that’s me
I’m right there


1st March 2024
© orlabeaton

Mother’s Love

1 Reply 

What helps you keep the embers burning

Even when the diesel of war

Threatens to drown them out



Let the breath be a starting place

A bellow to fan the molten grit

Deep within the belly



Let the hands coorie the tender flames

From the hurricane of destruction and

The lightning bolts of hate



And as you hold your shawl soft

On your hurting body

Rock to the sound of morning rain

And see how only a Mother’s Love

Knows the way



13/2/24




(To Mother: to treat a person with great kindness, love and protection)

Imbolc

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I stand alone

In a dark wood

Facing the moon

Lit by her beauty

Underfoot

Life is stirring

A wing sweeps

Forward

The maiden Brigid

Treads barefoot

Igniting my roots

One by one

The winds buffet me

Light, dark

Dark, light

The trees stand

Still

Soon the Cailleach

Will release her hold

On our dreams



(Jan 2023)

Cloud Sheets

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Baby pink and blue, tangerine orange and snow grey,

eyes refuse to close to this beauty.

Last night the wind emptied our bins and

plastic is scattered amongst flora and cars.

I hold my empty bin with open palms.

My son is arriving home this weekend and 

for once we are pausing,

to feast on this precious light.

Gratitude to those who knew it would

fill us.

Again

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Eight nights until the Solstice
Eight nights until the seal breaks
And amber floods the Earth again
Tips towards possibility

The incessant rain has stopped
And I sit watching the sunrise
My ancestral body breathing
Waiting

I dream of being born again
From the death of this winter
May the bones of those lost
Also rise again

Ring of Brodgar
Stonehenge
Newgrange
Knowth

An Cailleach

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Look to the skies and you will see her; 
as the buzzard soars in the wind drifts 
Look to the seas and you will hear her; 
as the seal dances with the moon tides 
Look to the earth and you will smell her; 
as the cow grazes on the clover life 

She is the mountain, the wind, the babbling brook; 
She is the red, hot fire of your blood 
and the stony cold rock of your bones; 
She is our landscape, 
She is everywhere, 
Present in everything 

Untouchable, immovable, timeless 
Grandmother, Wise Woman, An Cailleach 
She Whose Body is the Earth


Grace of Snow

2 Replies 
There is such beauty

in the way that the grass

gracefully accepts the snow

and the snow gracefully accepts

the soft-landing place of

the grass.

They are entirely at ease

with each other’s presence.



Outside the world

of weather warnings and

closed bridges

there is a grace right here,

right now, each flake

whirling and dancing,

each blade

gracefully welcoming,

like an old friend,

the miraculous arrival of snow.

The Wild Bells

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The sprinkling frost and icy windscreens 

arrive just in time for November’s end. 

A prophet calls - Winter is here. 

Here, now, an ancient bell sounds 

in the cells of our wild animals. 

Deep in the body of a dormouse, 

her heart and lungs are listening. 

She can be found cocooning herself 

in dried leaves and grasses, 

at the base of a coppiced oak tree. 

She chose this spot with care in September. 

Now she rolls her body into a tight shell 

and enters the dark half of the year. 

She is la dormeuse, she is the sleeper. 


Is she fearful of the cold and dark? 

Does she long for the light to return? 

What trust it must take to close her eyes. 

The ultimate faith in her instincts.

Oh, how we have lost this ancient bell, 

in light, unlimited and man-made, 

in blue screens and non-stop proving. 

Oh, how the Earth is calling us, 

urging us to listen to the wild bells. 



“It’s this radical simplicity that will save her. And deep within it, at the heart of her stillness, something she has no need to name, but something we might call trust: that one day, yes, the world will warm again, and with it, her life.” Gayle Boss in All Creation Waits