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I call to Veteris, great of wisdom, old as stone,
I call to you of hidden might, of shadowed mien,
whose lands are of the fairest, scarp and sea,
moor and wood. Veteris of many blessings,
in times long gone your grace was known by many,
your name called aloud in honest love and prayer,
your altars raised by the faithful and the thankful,
by those who rightly placed their trust in you.
Of the wounds of fang and tusk you know much,
and of the game of fortune, the lot of our lives;
guide of the wanderer, protector of the tribe,
caster of wisdom and song, I praise and honor you.
I call to Litavis of the golden sands,
goddess who stands upon the shore, the white surf
lapping at your feet; yours are the between-lands,
the border that sunders realm from realm, the first breath
of the newly-born, the visions of those near death.
Goddess, yours is the moorland, the good black dirt,
the root and stone within; yours are the vanished tales,
the blood and bone of many tribes; yours is the voice
we hear when the wind is high, the comfort we know
in the darkest night, the joy we find in home
and family. O mother, I thank you for blessings
long known, for gifts long understood; I praise your might.
I call to Ricagambeda, noble lady,
mighty one, granter of strength of every sort,
strength of body, strength of will, strength of spirit,
all are in your domain, O goddess great and wise.
Digger in the dirt, furrower of fields,
the seed we plant becomes our dream and our desire,
the salt we sweat only sweetens the gathered fruit,
for time and yearning bring all things into being.
Yours is the land of the many valleys,
the river-ways cutting through sod and stone,
yours the path we all must travel, the final fight.
O Ricagambeda, I offer you my praise.
Father of fathers, founder of families, Beli Mawr
who led the great journey, chieftain of the gods,
yours is the battle-flame, the madness of men,
yours are the daring, the far-roaming folk,
yours are the warriors and the farmers, the seekers
of home, the takers of land, the makers of kin
and clan. Beli Mawr who is of the sunny realms
and the shadowed, who walks the wall of the living,
great of might, bright of aspect, comfort of the lost
and the bereft, I call to you with reverence,
and awe, I offer you my words of praise,
O kind and gracious god, I honor you.
Llyr of the midmost lands, of farm and forest,
heath and shore, marsh and fen, wherever your folk
made their home, there you abide, there you keep watch
over tribe and kin, there we see your strength, O god,
there we know your goodness and your constancy.
So little we hold from days of old, so much
has been buried, so much become dust, blown away;
Llyr of the lost legends, Llyr who stands in shadow,
might of the great brine, mate of the far-flung lands,
Llyr of the sorrows, of family and fate fallen
to ruin, I call to you, I offer you my praise.
O noble one, Llyr of land and sea, I honor you.
Penarddun, foremost of women, mother of children
courageous and cunning, goddess most beautiful,
goddess most wise, open-handed hostess of many,
chief of the household, chief of the battlefield,
long gone are the tales of your might and your glory,
long gone those who knew of your ventures and deeds;
remaining to us is your resolve, the strength
of your spirit, your sovereignty–well known to us
are your gift of order, your blessing of freedom,
the voice of self within our hearts. O Penarddun,
who knows of the greatness in each day’s labor,
who knows of the fire within the coal, I honor you.
I honor you, Manawyddan, son of the sea,
praiseworthy one, enduring one whose words
are of great weight, whose worth and repute are unquestioned.
O landless chief, lord of the last faery isle,
husband of peerless Rhiannon, you are wise,
Manawyddan, beyond mortal ken, skilled in arts
rustic and refined; O counsellor of kings,
quick of wit, clever of craft, shrewd and subtle of speech,
your tales are of cunning and foresight, of sorrow
and of care, for none are spared the ebb and flow
of fortune. Manawyddan, who knows the good and ill
of insight, I call to you with words of praise.
I call to Gofannon, strong-armed son of Don,
master of the forge; yours is the art of hammer
and tongs, yours the deadly blade and the sturdy plow.
Gofannon of the brothers three, great ones whose work
in the realms brought such blessings to mankind,
all the craft of iron is yours to bestow;
the gift of hardened hands, the sooty face
of the artisan, each blacksmith wears your favor
on his skin. Gofannon who takes the rock within
the earth, who makes from it things of use and beauty,
who shares with us this changing of the world,
I praise your name, I praise your goodness and your grace.
I call to Amaethon, son of the riverflow,
brother of might and wisdom; friend of the farmer,
the ploughman, the shepherd, yours is the gift
of sunshine and rain, of a warm summer season,
a bountiful harvest, a larder well-filled.
Amaethon who nourishes the land on which we live,
on which we rely, yours is the furrowed field,
the good black soil and the seed within, yours is the might
that gilds the grain, that makes the apple to blush.
O god who draws life from the earth, god whose art
it is to cross into shadow and back again,
Amaethon, I praise your name, I honor your work.
I call out to Cuda from whom all fortune flows,
who blesses us with those small gifts that ease our lives,
that keep at bay the suffering of our being:
a little money in our pockets, food enough
within our larders, a strong back and an agile mind,
good friends to share our joys and our burdens,
small and simple things indeed and yet great treasures.
Cuda of the lovely hills, the pretty towns,
the woods and fields, yours are the happy lands,
the lands of the farmer and the fisherman,
the shopkeeper and the shepherd. The good life
is yours, O Cuda; I pray to you for favor.
Fieldstones 