Brigid’s Ritual, Part 8

A kitchen of potions, dried herbs
Hanging from rafters, and good coffee --
My landing place this morning in the spirit world --
Ariel, my friend and guide, and I
Sit at the table before dawn
As I impart the news between sips --
Our excitement shared
At a ground swell of bold
winning aspiration catching fire --a sense
We collectively, resoundingly
Will defeat the menace of religious fanatics and 
Their corrupted puppets --
Ariel smiles with my joy,
And leads me away from our table --
We fly as crows
West, to a lighthouse,
A warm light and an open window
Beckon --
I shift into the small room full
Of books on shelves --
I'm drawn to an open tome on the table
And lay my hand on a page --
The words tell a story --
Forbidden literature and wisdom,
Characters portrayed
In secret --shared in someone's cottage
Between friends, book to hand with trust given --
Where nationalism thrives in gloom
and imposes a blinding fog —banned
Books offer a lighted path
To dissent and survival --
So we tell our stories of outlawed sensuality
Or ancient lore
To arrive at dawn, at democracy,
Freedom of bodies, minds, lifetimes
Lived and set free in the pages of books and beyond --
Outside the pre-dawn stillness --
The expectation of a bird's first song,
The sound and smell of salty waves below,
The circling beam of the lighthouse, now over land
Now over sea --
A comfort at this moment --
The lighthouse, my lodestar
As I speak and write
Hopefulness in my world.

Laurel Owen, July 2024