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The Pagan Poet
Poets have, through the ages, been the mystics
and magic-makers of their times.
Modern witches, pagans, and spiritualists
keep this tradition alive!


I am the leaf blowing on the bay tree
Rustling, flashing
One shining one hiding in thousands
I crown the head of victors
Myself a crown, my chaplet of laurel
I lay aside and kneel,
Watching the Silver Lady in Her orbs
Float above me.
My colors are muted, browns and greens
And brilliant reds, yellows, orange
But my inner robe is purple
My cloak, grey.
She of all colors, She of the grey
Spurning ribbons and seashells
To tie my hair with loops of hemp
And step with bare feet
In the mud, the grasses, the Waters.
The power lies quietly in my heart;
Do I have the strength to open it?
On broad grey wings I fly,
And stand still at the waterside
Waiting, waiting,
What will come along for my dinner?

                                       - Laurel Greyheron, Sept. 24, 2001

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