My cauldron is rimmed, not with pearls, but with Blood Red Roses.
Spirals graven there over the year we stirred the Awen together.
Scored by the stirring stick, colored by the brew,
One for each one of us together in the task.
Black the Cauldron’s rim.
Once it stretched from Wales to California.
Here on the Shore of the Western Sea,
Where Cerridwen called me, and I followed, not knowing,
Until I stood on the shores of Llyn Tegid,
A wreath of ogham floating at my feet.
Is it still there? I feel it, black but unmarked,
Like the flight path of the plane that carried me full circle.
I hold it in my hands, weightless, black and thick,
As I sit in the shallows of the lake.
A paradox, the rim was gone, the rim returns.
The cauldron is 5,000 miles across, then the width of my spread hands.
My tasks are not known to me, but I do as Cerridwen asks.
I ask the Maidens to warm it with their breath.
We each must make the journey our own.
Like the GPS in a tallship,
The trackline tells me where I have been, not what course to steer.
As it did at the huge tiller, I hope this will orient me,
Allow me to learn to steer by compass and the wind.
Full and by,
Bala is Calling.