This season is an echo of each year’s song;

Easter’s walk on the moor was cold and long,

We circled unsure of where we’d gone…

Weak light, for three days the sun’s not shone!

Together, yet feet treading earth alone,

The paths we’ve traversed feel all undone,

And in the bitter air we turn,

Track curling toward the river’s burn

Bending and dropping to where fish belong

And we happen upon the Healing Stone,

Open mouth of rock over watery tongue,

My body descends through the Healing Stone,

Cacooned in the circle of this Healing Stone,

Its ring the shape of an opened tomb,

I fall to the water, flesh and bone,

A descent that says I must unlearn,

Unravel, prepare for some deep unknown,

Not to count what is lost or what is won,

What body of truth I think I own…

The victory bell is the river’s drone,

Or the cry that rises from the womb.

The air resounds with what is done,

Its voice soft and yet so sweetly stern.

My feet to the great dark earth return,

Moving and knowing each step we’ve gone,

And behind each cloud the sun has shone,

The circle of life saying ‘Yes you belong.’