Lotus. Papyrus. Turquoise. Lapis. Gold. A jackal-headed god nods in the noon that shimmers over the river as if fanned by invisible slave girls. Frogs fall silent , stunned by the sun or eternity. The Pyramids have been crumbling for centuries. Snug in his bassinet of reeds the lucky baby plays with his toes, naked. What does he care for his mother's eyes in a thorn tree? Around his head an alphabet of flames spells Thunder . Transformation. Woe to women. The sun begins its red plunge down the sky. Deep in the earth a locust's eyes snap open. Frogs resume their trill And punctual to the minute down the path, tottering on jewelled sandals, comes the beautiful lonely princess who's wandered in from another kind of story.
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 . . . ."