Scry

poem, a call

Scry
It is the Ancient One who calls me.
I have seen Her reflection in my mirror
  since I was young.
It is Her I fear to face,
  fear to hear, in my silences.                                     
What She will ask of me, the Dark One?                           
The wisdom of the ages lies in Her fathomless eyes
  belied by Her ageless face, shrouded, dark.
Hidden, swathed in veils and shawls
  She calls to me.
Patiently, calmly, She waits.
She knows no time - that loss is only mine.
Her I must face, in that nameless dark place
  where fears my soul to tread,
  where deeds of heroines are writ before they are done.
How can my fate be woven with theirs?
Why calls She to me?
She has seen my name on the skein of Time
  it is my géas to answer Her.
In this I may not fail.

All humbly, I seek Her… and find no answer.
It is no maiden sweet and fair She seeks.
The Dark One calls for warriors
Wise Women with the strength
to do what is needed.
I am no humble maid, but warrior a-borning.