The Yule Festival

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! '