Beltane itself was busy with owls hooting and May-day dawning; morris-feet prancing and white-blossom casting; green-grass mad-hatting and tired-feet soaking...
So our Grove's Ritual waited until the moon was as ripe as the grass was fat. And the wait, and our wending journey to the glade, were worth every moment and every step.
We were led into the glade, by those in the know, as the sun slinked down - but the magic was rising all around. Some of us came here as old friends of the place, others fresh to its bolts of bugle, riot of reeds, and chitter of chaffinch. The grass was cool to our feet as we marked out the quarters, but soon the glade flickered warmly with glass-jarred candles and drifted with strips smoky-rocked incense.
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| Brimming with bugle. Thanks to Wildwood for piccie. |
With Bel-fires set, and with unfamiliar words clasped in our hands, we stumbled into our ritual. A first for our Grove, to be grass-kissed, tree-hugged and sky-vaulted. The words may have stuck, places may have been lost, and steps may have faltered.
But then we were there.
Centered.
In a ring of may-day love, song alive on our lips, berry wine sweet on our tongues.
The magic lay within us. Between us. All round us.
A magical place had slipped a little of its wonder inside each of us sitting in that glade, within and without its circle.
Beltane blessings: long overdue. But Glade: well-met.
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