You, whose gentle depths unfold before the searching serpent-spear,
are dishonoured and devalued by the words of men,
who see you as a thing to be controlled and tamed.
You, who are untameable.

You, who open to the Beltane fires your petals of wet crimson,
are torn with metal, subdued with chemicals, probed with rubber-gloved fingers,
that do not dare to truly touch your ancient mysteries.
You, who are unknowable.

You, who nurture life within your deeply layered folds,
and hold the love and fear of nameless men,
who poke and prod and feign respect, whilst robbing you of all your moon songs.
You who are untouchable.

You, who vibrate with the dragon lines that thread the Earth,
and count the days in blood to sing of tides and lunar knowing,
are defiled by those whose coils are not the serpent's kiss,
and fill their minds with platitudes as they desecrate your cave of longing.
You who are inviolable.

You, who are the temple of my soul; sacred harlot, blessed whore,
and hold the red thread of my motherline in your ancient dreaming,
remain a primal mystery of depth and wildness, of Goddess-dancing ecstasy,
and will not be subdued and changed for all their dry-desert striving.
You who are undeniable.

©13th April - 17th August 2006, Jacqui Woodward-Smith