Three Faces

I am the colour of the moon. I cast black shadows, yet have no light,

Am I the moon, a silver mirror of the sun. The sun whose light is the brightest and more brilliant than mine.

Moonlight tricks, deceives, and runs off with your money. So they say.

I have no water, yet I command the sea. My rhythms are the incoming tide of birth and the outgoing tide of death.

Are we burdened by our rhythms, always changing yet always predictable? Luna, lunatic. Hysterical. Inconstant. Pock marked with craters, wounds we have silently borne.

Virgins, Mothers, Crones.

Black clouds birth darts of silver rain that sit like a glass globe on green leaves. Life giving, then vanishing whence they came.

Ten lunar months the unborn swims in the womb of creation, responding to the rhythms of life. Life's thread is spun, is measured, and is always cut. There's only one way out.

I stand in that doorway myself. The face I wear is the face of Hecate, the third face, the Crone. Midwife of Death.

Her time is the dark of the moon. Her time is the time of power.

Her mirror is broken and she sees clearly in the dark.

In the waning dark of the moon she will give birth to the crescent moon.

She always does.

I think we shall all meet again on the dark side of the moon