The Yule Festival Poem by Tom Billsborough

In time there is no time, in place no place,
Only the stillness
As we await the pivotal dawn,
Supplicant as slack water at the tide's turn.
A thin wind whines, bitter as sloe,
Anointing our heads with relentless snow
In the sacred grove beneath the lights
Of the oak and the white mistletoe,
Beneath the full moon, whose phases
Only the women know.
So they control the ritual.
As daylight breaks we sing in praise
Of the rebirth of the longer days.
Robed in red, the mother priestess says:
'Now the White Goddess comes to rule
We celebrate this festival of Yule,
The rebirth of the sun
And of life for the year to come
In the eternal cycle
Here with this ritual.'
Then Maid and Mother and the priest
Process three times round the grove
In clockwise fashion as the sun
Until the Maiden stands alone
Before the black-robed crone,
And says: 'The tide has turned, O crone.
I come to claim what is my own.'
The crone in black will pass her veil
To the white-clad Maiden with a smile:
'The days grow longer, the sun reborn,
My season's ended, yours is yet to come.
Heed the counsel of the years,
Be wise and bold and have no fears,
I bid you, gentle one... and Blessed be.'
The Maid stands tall before the tree
And holds her candelabrum high
And sings a gentle melody:
'O, Goddess Moon, my sister now,
Grant us your favours of great joy,
Of love and peace and harmony
To all the world and Blessed be! '