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FRIDAY 13th. AT PELION, GREECE
Arachne 1, May 1983
If you come upon her symbols -
The spiral eye, breasts as knobs on a gravestone,
Coiled serpent, bee or butterfly
Whose wings are her thighs, and dark body her entrance;
If you come upon her symbols by the wayside
Do not rush by, your mind on the bus timetable, coffee or the child's needs.
Do not rush by,
Stop and breathe a minute. Breathe the mystery.
Look at her precious bee shape. It is you.
Look at her spiral eye, coiling each way to the back part of your brain, tilting your breast,
spinning into your womb.
Who is she, this symbol. She is you.
But who are you, this running mother,
Running to nowhere, to ruin, to desolation, to duty that annihilates you,
Running nowhere into agony and despair.
Stop for a running minute, mother, sister. She is you.
You in your stillness, your beauty, your power.
Long covens of dancing women, thirteen in their runes and circles,
Celebrating the Mother; winding into butterfly formation
(our double axe, our butterfly).
Dancing on blood red poppies, on white blooms in the cornfields,
Blood in flow.
Stop for a minute, mother, sister.
Walk the sacred paths to the standing stone -
Tread the mazes. They are you.
Steadily form rings with sisters, entwining, encircling, unbreakable,
Remembering the spiral eye.
The others fear it. call it evil, spit. It is our Eye.
They say the Goddess day is unlucky, they destroy our coven number,
They destroyed our sisters, our mothers.
They fear that we shall remember.
Look at the spiral eye, sisters, mothers. We shall remember.
They shall sink into unknown graves under our dancing feet.
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