The Lady of the Bluebells
An inspirational poem by Prodigal Brother
Introduction by Occult Mysteries
We are delighted to publish another poem by this gifted writer at a time of the year when all Nature is dressed in the radiant robes of Spring. We hope these inspired verses will bring comfort and joy to all our readers and encourage them to go out into the fields, parks and woods. And if they meditate on the wonders that surround them as they walk they will find, as the author did, that a Grove of Trees is a Great Book which in every leaf and blossom displays the Wisdom of the Lord our Father.
Our brief afterword is taken from Fairies at work and at play by the English occultist and seer, Geoffrey Hodson whose clairvoyant descriptions of the invisible kingdoms of Nature have never been equalled. We review his work and the books in which it is recorded—some of which are illustrated—elsewhere on our website, see Further reading list at the end of the sidebar.
The Lady of the Bluebells
There's a path through the forest
in the cool bright of Spring-shine
that leads to a meadow I'm told,
away from the choking pressures of town-life,
a freedom from mental, material curses,
to a spirit of power that breathes with the trees,
as ancient and precious as alchemist's gold.
And the twist of the path curves by a stream
whose roots will trip-under those quick careless feet
that have no respect for the life of the forest,
whose green light glows through the thick downy mosses
that grow all around the branches and stones.
There is sanctuary here
for those who have awareness.
All you can hear is the trickling water's
crisp liquid voice, from treble to bass,
as it streams from its source to nourish the leaf folk,
drip-tripping from boulders, to pebble and rocks
to burst through the brackens in fountains of bluebells
hymning Her presence in thronged congregations,
lilac choirs that praise the Lady of the Woods
as she turns Her key in the cosmic clock.
She has silver brown skin and jade in Her hair,
forget me knots trail about Her feet with blossom,
that sings Her resurrection with violet sighs.
Smoked cinnamon wood-musk sublimes in her tread,
spicing the air with pheromone threads of her essence;
Her retinue blooms with stately ladies
and wild squires of many hues;
an effervescence of flowering jewels.
She is healing Her season and those who know how to see
can profit from Her invisible strength
and breathe in deep the pure secret of Her magic.
I wish I could shrink into a hole in Her ground
and suckle on the fizzing life and doze
like a lazy bee of surfeit sweet
to open eyes next year to see
that ignorance has gone at last.
The Fairies' Midwife sets us free
to touch this coming realm,
this Spirit realm of Conscious Presence.