At the base of the stone crowned Tor
lies an isle hidden by Faerie lore;
embowered by mist that cloths the moor
is the isle of Avalon.
Wedged between worlds lies the gate,
encompassing the atoll in magick’s weight,
where the reeds murmur echoes of fate
to the Pilgrims on Avalon.
Only the dark ones, the Sidhe,
hear the voices that ring out clearly
and linger upon the tongues of the lovely
Daughters of Avalon.
Enchantment woven through mists of grey
gives fair wings to their feet of clay
and by the full moon they pray
to the Mother of Avalon.
Imploring wisdom and blessing they yield,
water lily bloom and shimmering field,
and the High Priestess to whom will wield
the Gods’ plan for Avalon.
By the resonating light of the moon,
in virgin spring and butterfly cocoon,
Spring will bless them with new life soon
throughout all of Avalon.
Listening to marshes breathe in the night,
trees’ shadows unfurl across the light,
silent footsteps of a figure clad in white
belong to a Novice of Avalon.
Anara, like the nightingale’s song is fair,
with olive skin and lucent ginger hair;
like moonlight she wanders her nocturnal lair
of beautiful Avalon.
Often she stares with an untrained eye
into the sacred pool reflecting the sky,
and there she watches poet stars run by
over top of Avalon.
Without the aid of herbs for vision,
or guides to interpret and cause confusion,
she conjures the irresistible fusion
to the Goddess of Avalon.
And sometimes in the water’s trance
the sight consumes her in its dance,
with the Goddess’ countenance
she’ll gaze upon Avalon.
Repose descends until morning’s near
and of the night’s whispers none shall hear
but the Fae will remember in fear
of Anara of Avalon.
Slowly time crawls, in no time at all,
Anara grows beautiful, powerful, tall,
her elemental prowess comes to enthrall
her Sisters in Avalon.
Enchanting, she stands in the mists of the lake,
Glastonbury bells toll and all wake,
arms to the sky- shifting, azure, opaque-
parting the mists of Avalon.
No path through the mist, failure did descend,
sinking, sucking, burbling, no point to contend,
Anara lays in the fen, forlorn and weakened,
banished from Avalon.
“The Goddess has rejected me” she cries,
separated from her sisters she dies,
her spirit enters the mists while her body lies
in the marsh of Avalon.
Greeted by the spirit of the fallow deer,
“Come with me my love; do not fear”,
Anara’s soul is reborn ever so near
to the isle of Avalon.
No more indulgence in magick, my child.
No more flourishing such power, so wild.
To the humility of Earth was Anara domiciled
by Cerridwen of Avalon.
– Intuitive Ginger