The Call by Charlotte Santall
The Women gather, and draw close around the fire,
With rapt attention, they talk and they listen.
They have a language all their own; a unique dialect of sighs and signs
rarely spoken in these times, or heard by the ears of others, or in the light of the day.
They speak of life and death; of what has been lost, forsaken and dispossessed:
Kinships; ancestors; wildness and belonging to the land.
They share visions, augur destinies and dreamings and the forgotten mysteries of the Moon.
And as they share, time distorts and the earth spins more slowly on its axis,
As they sit and they talk; and they talk and they sit; seeing inward…
suspended in timeless space; held by a spiral existence...
And the potency of their sharing, the absoluteness of their passion and pain,
dignity and disgrace; their ecstasy, emptiness, sorrow and rage
are distilled between silence and laughter and longing and tender heartfelt care.
They howl and sing and bleed and weep in the truth of their being and becoming.
With fearless presence and devotion, they sift through the sea-drift of their hearts.
Armours dissolve, masks melt; knots loosen and unravel,
As they spin a golden lace-work reality as beautiful as the lines on their faces.
It is a strange and wondrous alchemy of body wisdom and soul song...
The Women weave their sparkling rainbow essence
into a new paradigm of archetypes and deities; ethereal and manifest...
And what was once thought to be dead is brought to life,
What lay sleeping is awoken, in themselves and in the world…
Grandmother by Charlotte Santall