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I offer words of praise to Mathonwy, O great one
whose tales have been lost to the years, whose might
and wisdom we know through your son and heir, far-famed
Math who carried your name in love and pride,
who ruled his realm with judgment and courage, who held
the vast powers of magic in hand. Mathonwy,
we know you in the shadow you cast, in the fine
and noble spirit you rouse within your kin,
within the people of your lands; we know you
in the soft sweet song still held within your name.
Mathonwy, gracious and gentle one, who knows
the strength and worth of men, I honor you.
I call to wise and shining Nudd, son of noble Don
and Beli Mawr the bright, father of Gwyn and Edern
who served so well the court of the far-famed king.
Nudd of the tangled tales, the confoundment
of the years, of tongues that stumble, words gone wrong,
Nudd of the many faces and the many names,
we see you reflected in the rippled pool,
we see you in shadow, we see you in the fog,
in seamist and in smoke. I call to you, O god,
granter of blessings, upholder of tribe and kin,
for all we know of you, for all we are with you,
I thank you for your many gifts, I praise your name.
(I do realize that I’ve just recently written a prayer to Lludd; as a very hard polytheist, my thoughts on this are “better safe than sorry.”)
I offer my praise to Gwyn, son of Nudd,
whose tales have been told for many long years,
whose stories have shifted–have lost and gained
in word and in meaning–but cast a still-familiar
shadow, keep their beauty, keep their might. Gwyn
of the brave and gallant ways, Gwyn of passions
fierce and full, you carried off the maiden fair
and battle for her each new May Day; you gather
the souls of the valiant and lead the wild hounds
on a winter’s night; you hold the throne of the fairy
realm. Bright of aspect, dark of guise, Gwyn of the worlds
about us and beyond, I honor you, O god.
Lludd of the silver hand, of tales and names long told,
long twisted round, turned this way and that, Lludd who rules
the flourishing isle, lord of the western gate,
I call to you. Child of blessed Don, mother
of gods, current of the river; child of Beli Mawr,
bright beloved whose blood flows in the veins of kings;
brother of wise Llefelys and many spirits
great and glorious, yours is the tale of the three plagues,
the three things hidden and then revealed, O catcher
of fish, you are the might of the mists, the builder
of castle keep and wall. O Lludd of the waters
and the ancient words, I praise and honor you.
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.
I offer my praise to Afallach; I call to you,
O son of the father, father of the mother,
lord of the orchard and the apple red and sweet,
lord of the fortunate isle that men call Avalon.
Yours is the far-famed tor, the hill once bound by the sea;
yours are the tales of the bright new king, his company
dashing and doomed; Afallach, yours is the legend
and the legacy, the mystery and the might.
You are the last best friend of man, you are our guide
and guardian upon our final flight; Afallach
of the fruited tree, god of the endless harvest
and the life lived after life, I honor you.
To Math, son of Mathonwy, I offer my praise,
O lord of the northland, lord of magics subtle
and mighty, bearer of the uncanny staff.
O Math of the agile wit, great of wisdom,
swift of thought, you know full well of courage
and of trickery, you know how a clever man
can find his way through thorn and bramble, wood and fen.
Bound by fate to a peace idle and still,
only ravaging war, the blood shed in battle,
could set your feet upon the sod; you know
the power behind the word. Math fab Mathonwy,
I call to you with reverence, I honor your name.
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.
I call to Dylan, son of shining Arianhrod,
brother of Lleu of the skillful hand, beautiful boy,
bright of heart, bright of spirit, bright of countenance.
A babe newly born, you took to the sea,
swift and sure, and the sea took you as her own.
Child of the wave, yours is the deepest, coldest brine,
yours the stony strand; yours too the lost tale
of the third fatal blow, yours the endless crashing
of the vengeful surf. Dylan ail Don, fair-haired
and good-hearted, noble and true, great of might
and great of vision, O Dylan of the white swells,
I honor you, I offer you my praise.
I call to good Arawn, lord of the afterward,
lord of the last breath; to the furrow and the grave
you hold the deed. Older than old, fairer than fair,
your hounds give voice in the night, in the dark, crying
the dead to Annwn. Patient one, yours are the roadways,
twisted and turned, yours the footsteps of the lost,
yours the dark paths that lead from all places to one end.
Arawn who waits, who knows the worth of a good friend,
whose hall holds all that lies buried in the cold earth,
may your might be remembered, your fame regained,
your name again spoken in reverence and awe;
Arawn of the tangled tales, I praise and honor you.
Fieldstones 