Crone at the Crossroads - Brighid FitzGibbon

[Larry Robinson]

Crone at the Crossroads


Torchlight flickers 
at the cave entrance,
an uneasy dance 
between shadow and light 
in deep cavernous passageways
usually hidden
behind the veil.


Like an owl perched atop a willow
in the dark of a new moon,
the crone awaits.

Eyes adjusting to interminable darkness,
to ever-changing landscape
all the while peering at the horizon.

Mother and daughter approach.
Woven sprigs of sun-warmed dandelion and lavender 
Crown the maiden.
A garland of perpetual youth
encircles one too young
to be Queen of the Underworld.

Hecate guards a threshold that Demeter must not cross,
not now,
not ever.


Hecate turns toward the void.
Familiar with the terrain
Of descent, 
she no longer desires light.

She knows to pause.
Her pupils dilate, yielding to Mystery.

Into the folds of her capacious heart
she tucks away memories
Of blossom, of flower, of honey
To offer her young apprentice 

when a pomegranate seed 
leaves
a bitter taste 
in her mouth.

	- Brighid FitzGibbon