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Barddas

Barddas is a word which encompasses all the creative output of the Bardic Arts. Here you will find poetry, tales and even pictures by our talented members. Keep calling back to see what's new.

Samhuinn

Samhuinn - end of year, beginnings, time to remember ancestors,
A time to reflect and go deep within,
A time to forgive and be forgiven.
The shadows lengthen as
The sun sets lower.
Smokey air and damp dark nights,
Mists and bedewed spiders webs,
Cold starry nights, red-flamed leaves.
The crone sits in deepest darkest night.
Samhuinn, the closing of the year and the return to earth.
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A joint effort by the Bardic Grove, from their first Gorsedd

Can you feel the call of the air?
Can you feel the wind blow through your hair?
Can you feel it gently lick your skin
Can you feel it wild?
Can you feel it howling


Can you feel the call of fire?
Can you see the gentle flame grow higher?
Can you feel it roar, can you absorb its light?
Can you feel it dance?
Can you see it bright?


Can you feel the call of water?
Can you hear the crashing waves and feel the flow of the river?
Can you feel its tides pull within?
Can you feel it calm?
Can you feel it raging?


Can you feel the call of earth?
Can you feel the mother who's given birth?
Can you feel the mountains?
Can you feel the sand?
Can you feel her pulse throb through the land?


Can you feel the call of awen?
Can you feel it weave through all?
Can you feel it blow through you?
Can you feel it burn?
Can you feel it cleanse you?
Can you feel it ground you?


Lee Tanya Storey

Elemental Love

Your spirit
Moves through the forests
And valleys
Cross meadows
And singing brooks

Mine flies
Through the air
On the clouds
And the wind
Chasing the stars

But where
The rainbow ends
Air and earth unite
And we
Are as one.

Shaun Hayes.

At the Long Stone

Across the long deep stillness
of the Long Stone barrow,
a warm wind blows:
It embraces Silver Birches
that twist and sigh in ecstasy
beneath the bright fire
of an expectant Sun.
From its shallow hollow
of heathland ground,
the dark Long Stone thrusts skyward
on a standing sine wave
that arcs into infinite blue.
Below, in fine sand,
Bluebells nod as if in approval.

On the mound of the Long Stone barrow,
Gorse sparkles golden,
and short green flags
of new bracken quiver,
unfurling in the breeze.
The old Long Stone gods
are now the young ones
who dance
in the bright fertility
of a morning in May.

Roger Steel