04/11/2025
The Stones of Glen Lyon
(for the Spirit of the West)
Druids &medcibe women walked into the longest Glen Lyon,
bare feet on the skin of the earth,
Ireland still humming in our bones,
Scotland calling us home.
We followed the whisper of wind through gorse and heather,
the hush of moss on the stones
and there they stood, the Stone Family,
older than story, older than prayer.
Across the river we waded,
ankle deep, soft laughter and song,
but when we returned she had risen—
wild woman river, swollen with strength.
I carried the dog in my arms,
and the water kissed my knees like initiation.
Later, by firelight and bread,
a loaf was broken
ni***es of the Mother rising in the crust,
one blackened with mystery.
It was handed to me.
“The Old Hag of the West,” they said,
“Cailleach of the West Wind,
she who births the new year through winter’s womb.”
And so I was granted the honour
to carry her mantle for a year,
to bless the seasons, to walk with her name,
to remember the ones who held the stones
and the stones who still hold us.
Thirteen gathered that night in the Croft,
Stews simmering, laughter circling,
songs of kindness wrapping the air
and outside, in the quiet glen,
the stones listened.
They always listen.
