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I call to fair Creiddylad, daughter of Lludd
of the silver hand, loveliest maid in all the isles,
gentlest and most noble woman, comely
of form, graceful of bearing, charming of manner,
shining bright in wisdom and virtue. Creiddylad,
your beauty and your goodness drew to you
the love of worthy men, your lot it was to bear
the strife sown by their rivalry. You know the cost
of jealousy, the sorrow and the suffering,
you know the burden of a pretty face
and a fate unchosen, you know the need
of a living world; goddess, I honor your calling.
Dôn of the river-flow, Dôn of ancient blood
and ancient name, mother of children mighty
and wise who yet work their wonders in the world,
consort of Beli Mawr who sows the seed and reaps
the crop. Dôn whose name lies deep in the land,
older than old, you wear your silence like a crown;
we know you in the tales of others, we know you
in the shards of stone broken by a churning earth,
in the waters that rise from within. Gracious one,
giver of life, whose blessings are in sweet water
and salt, in the sun-warmed ground and the cold soil
beneath, I call to you, O goddess, with reverence.
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 call to Modron of the many faces,
Modron of deep roots and scattered seeds, Modron
mother of Mabon, mistress of field and harvest,
mistress of the river deep and wide, washer
at the shore, granter of the right of rule.
Modron of the dim-lit hill, subtle and enduring,
wise elder daughter of the faery king,
born to the isle of apple-trees, to a world
we see in shadows alone, a world we know
through the broken visions of poet and bard.
Modron, gracious goddess, friend of mother and child,
friend of the bereft, I praise and honor you.
Branwen of the Cymri, daughter of Llyr
of the darksome sea, daughter of Penarddun
called most fair, child of intrigue, child of hope,
sister of Bran called blessed, brave and true,
Branwen of the raven, a holy bird and wise,
Branwen whose tales are of grief and care, I call to you.
Goddess who knows much of shame and of sorrow,
of dignity and of betrayal, O woman wronged
and avenged, you know too the worth of honor
and its cost. Branwen of the mighty isle,
bride of the cruel king, friend of the mourner
and the shade, goddess, I praise and honor you.
Nimue of the many names and the many tales,
of the deep and the dark, the many-layered well,
compassionate one who sits at the source of life,
lady of the blade and the sweet-water spring,
I call to you through the veil of the years,
through truths told in the space between words,
meaning made clear in the light within shadows.
Nimue, with time your stories dwindled, your semblance
grew less grand, yet your substance and your strength endure.
Goddess, you come at moments desperate and dire,
O herald of the fatal day; you come to those
who act on faith alone. Nimue, I honor you.
White-fingered Blodeuwedd, maiden fair as the face
of the storm, you knew no mother’s loving arms
nor father’s strength to keep you safe; your life
was made to serve another’s need. From flowers nine
your form was fashioned, of primrose and of broom,
of meadwort fresh and sweet, of the chestnut and the bean,
of the sturdy oak and the tree of the may,
of the cockle that pricks and the nettle that stings.
Blodeuwedd, called faithless and wicked by those
who would profit by your being, you know much
of blame and betrayal, of a life with no recourse,
of choices made by a thorny heart–I honor you.
Strong-willed Arianhrod, fair-faced sister of Gwydion,
daughter of the river-flow, mother of thrice-cursed Lleu
who met your challenges with courage and craft,
a proven man of worth and wisdom. Arianhrod,
your castle stands among green fields, hewn from the stone
below; your castle stands among the stars,
bright-shining in the cold night sky. I call to you,
O bearer of the silvery wheel, cloaked in the darkness,
wrapped in the unknown; I call to you, O goddess
who knows the price of expectation, who knows
the dignity of the self, who knows the gravity
of the truth; I call to you with all reverence.
Beautiful Cerridwen, mistress of Awen,
holder of the vessel from which such insight flows,
friend of the poet, the rhymer, the bard,
I pray to you, I seek your blessing. Cerridwen,
keeper of the cauldron of wit and inspiration,
so deep, so sweet, so clear, so cold its waters!
Yours is a fount of change, a wellspring of becoming,
a draught of wisdom to quench the thirst of seeker
and sibyl, of scholar and stranger. Cerridwen,
strong-hearted goddess, cloaked in wonder, wrapt in delight,
you know the worth of words, you know the might of vision.
Cerridwen, goddess great and good, I honor you.
I call to Rhiannon of whom old tales are told,
Rhiannon of full fame, whose name is a melody,
whose spirit sings through the years, through the hills and vales
of lands green and ancient. From the fairy mound you rose,
O goddess, astride your dainty-footed steed,
your ramble seeming slow and yet so swift,
arrayed in fine silks, well draped in bright gold,
a fairer figure never stood upon the sod.
Rhiannon of legends, Rhiannon of sorrows,
you know of betrayal, you know of the heart’s loss,
you know of the will to seek the right and the true.
Peerless goddess, noble and wise, I honor you.
Fieldstones 