By Cullen

black as pitch
cold as bones
beneath my feet
smelling of ancestor dreams
rich and fertile
the foundation of my life.

Mist roils in the air,
clinging to me like a veil of tears.
If you listen close
you can hear the voices in the tide
Calling, yearning
urging me to rememberthe past,
my future
all the times I've known.

This is the land of my soul's beginning.

My home before the Mother.

My closest tie on this earth.

The center of my heart.
It whirls and spins around me,
colors blurring into one,

Everything I see.
This is surely the womb of the

Magick grows here,
and fanciful dreams.

They hold the land deep,
as deep as my womb
coming from the source,
as cold as a tomb
its dying people
Tuatha and Brigid
wait to carry us to the Summerlands
and Manannan Mac Lir beckons from the waves.