She wandered through the courtyard in her tattered
Dress distributing wild violets.
She called us whores—your son ma'am, not your husband's
I think—and knaves—the taxes sir, your cellar
Is stocked with sweet Moselle. We called this madness.
Indicia of her innocence: to be
A maiden floating dead among the flowers.
She will become an elegant and mute
Image: the sodden velvet coat, the sinking
Coronet of poppies, virgin's bower,
And eglantine. The replicable girl.
(A blob of Chinese white becomes a hand.
The artist puts his brush in turpentine,
The model pulls her stockings on.)
Surround by the water-lily stems,
Her face appears an enigmatic mask:
A drowned Medusa in her snaking hair.
The lilies gape around her like pink mouths,
Telling us nothing we can understand.
Her eyes stare upwards: dead and not quite dead.
We're heading for the harvest, the time of dead things, the time when alive things are cut down dead and used to feed alive things. It's all (the Dark) Goddess pouring (the Dark) Goddess into (the Dark) Goddess.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."