Twelve Moons

A time of melancholy, souls howling out an unfathomable pain,

hearts thawing slowly as shoulder to shoulder we sat by the fire.

Split by dark fingers of fear, that pointed to shining freedom, 

we were but wings flapping, feverish in the dark,

till pink moon took us, swooning into her embrace.

I took my drumming to the flower moon, 

wide smiles cast around the circle spoke of hope. 

The year turns at solstice, 

bringing joy in sweet, ripe, strawberry moon,

and in her wake, warrior spirit, lightning scores the heavens, 

and thunder rolls and echoes into watery dreams,

from which the harvest moon reveals her golden face.

She calls and wild and sensuous we dance, 

singing songs of plenty till our cups spill into parched earth, until,  

it is time to come undone, again, dying moon, tender, as all our red leaves fall.

I marvel that we will find strength enough whilst time remains. 

For soon, by cold moons light, the turning slows, unearthly stillness falls upon this land. 

Nothing. Everything. Suspended between breaths.  

A star shoots bright cross frozen skies, the distant cry of wolves.

I wonder what shall come to pass in this twelve moons.