Full flowered moon, I threw you lillies

from the edge of a seaweed temple,

an offering to the old gods 

in the ways of my Celtic queens-women.

Rimilcemona, I’ve milked you

three times with my libations,

as gulls shriek and whorl on steadfast wing,

alongside humble sparrow to witness

the gritted loss of innocence

to old male wounds.

I have no care for them now,

the cut and chafe of their fat lips

against my groyne.

They do not know what to do

with my light, which at times

shines with the intensity

of the scorpion’s sting.

Waning gibbous hare moon

the silver in your hair

weaves with the gold on my back,

on this liminal, shifting shoreline,

where each stone holds its story.

I can not hope to tell them 

all in one lifetime.

Perigean spring tide salts

my leopard print pants

as I plunge full cold, swell-first,

crying out the fatness of cream

licked skin, dimpled, sagged

and corn worn.

A foam scummed watermark

laps at my temple gates.

The cleansing is complete.