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

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