The Divine Masculine

Like lightening,
he brings fire
both of destruction
and blessing
as he strides
across lands and seas,
forging ploughshares
and swords
from the raw earth,
to bring change
and renewal.

He is the keeper
of the sacred fires
that burn eternally,
a volcano of energy
sweeping away restraints,
transforming dreams
into reality,
and building castles
from caves.

He shines in glory
like the sun,
lighting the way,
removing obstacles,
protecting the feminine
from the harsh winds
and storms
that threaten creation.

From his throne,
he determines
the fate of many,
and acts accordingly
for the greater good,
with pure courage
and a fierce heart
he burns away
the dross of deception
making way for new life.

He it is,
who takes the dreams
of the mother
and by his actions
makes them tangible.



Fire refines
burns away the dross
of old beliefs
outworn ideas
kindled by habits
ignited by you
with the bellows
of your fervour.

Can I stand in the furnace
with my preconceptions
suspended and feel
my bark wither and crack
under the onslaught

Can I add more fuel
to the fire between us
so that all that is not real
crumbles to ashes
and only the essence
of you and I remains
fused together


The Water Carriers

We, the feminine, are carers of the water,
protectors of the sacred springs,
rainmakers and water-carriers,
who throughout time have healed
the earth with our tears as we put out
the fires that ravage the land.

Our power lies in our cohesiveness,
our unity that flows ever onward
eroding mountains and dams
nourishing and revitalising
greening the earth
sustaining life.

Instinctively we honour our heritage
offering the cup to soothe distress,
allowing our tears to flow
for joy and sorrow, in moments
of transition and transformation,
for birth and death.

We take water to cleanse our sanctuaries
to bless new arrivals
to honour the Beloved
to wash away the toils of life
to renew and refresh
to sustain each other.

And still we cry, quietly
for with our tears comes change, slowly
where action and force fail, inevitably
our gentle tears revive, endlessly
wash away the blood and dirt, thoroughly
transforming life anew, for all.

In this modern world of make believe,
it’s hard to remember and honour
our feminine role and sacred purpose
to carry the water where it’s needed
over the threshold, the altar, the bath,
the land, as a cup that floweth over.

Come, stand beneath the shower,
the waterfall, in rain or storm,
honour the renewal you bring
the new life you enable,
the secret of your power
lies in the gentle flow of love.


To be free

What does it mean, to be free?
To let the dice fall where they will,
without attachment or desire,
adrift in this world of endless confusions,
and simply observing what passes?

What does it mean to be free?
To have the power of choice,
and not to choose; to see the need
and not respond to help;
to put aside all judgements
of what is right or wrong?

What does it mean to be free
for a body that walks this earth?
A body whose soul is awake
to the stillness beneath the storm,
whose heart beats for all of creation,
with the force of eternal love,
who relinquishes selfish desires
for the beauty seen all around.

What does it mean to be free?
Free of all concepts of self
as something so separate and special,
that everything else comes second.
Free of the thoughts and beliefs
that survival depends on fight
and clouds expectations with fear.

What does it mean to be free?
Alive in this world to connections,
that stretch from the stars above
to the depths of the ocean seas,
that include all our relations
in this dance of creation with love.


In thoughts of you

Be quiet, dear heart,
and let your feeling swell
reaching out beyond
the small confines
of this body and this room.

In stillness find the magic link
that joins our hearts together
and weaves the infinite
into present form
with mutual promise.

Time ceases its restless march
as past and future merge
in the ever present
where the perfection of all that is
dwells for eternity.

My hands tingle
feeling the shape and form
unseen that is held, blessed,
cradled between
my palms.

All is well,
comes flooding back
rooting my consciousness
in the awareness
that we both are held.

My heart is but a channel
open to love
that flows out into the world
where my attention goes
full of love’s intent.

Be still my heart
surrendered to the force
that unites everything in truth
and let love have
its perfect way.

Now, with the stirring of my heart
I feel the pulse of time again
and words of gratitude for you
spill from my lips
into the space between.


A Morning Meditation

Take a moment to be still,
put down the mental sack
of all your woes,
and let your shoulders lift,
hold your head high,
and follow your breath
as it slowly travels deep
into your lungs, carrying stardust
and the promise of life.

Just for a moment,
be with yourself,
no other,
and circle your heart
with all the love
you long to share,
long to receive,
and breathe that in.

In this moment,
everything is possible,
everything is waiting for you,
you have only to let go
of your story
and breathe in love,
breathe out peace
and the universe
will join hands to dance
with glee all round you.

This is the moment
you’ve been waiting for,
so just do it,
there will never be a better time,
there never was,
only, always, this moment
in which love reaches out
to embrace you,
to release your angst,
to change your perception
of everything.


The way I travel now

The way I travel now is through a golden tunnel, lit by the low sun, a celebration of the passing year, it leads me on to fallen memories and empty branches lifted to the sky.
There was a time, at the start of my years, when all was fresh and green while along the verges hanging catkin lanterns lit my road and held out promises. 
Then, in the fullness of my journey, deep shade protected me from fiery heat and tempted me to linger gathering fruits and revelling in the endless peace. 
Now, is the time to celebrate the passing storms and glory in the changing age, stepping out, light-footed, into an unknown future bereft of camouflage. 
This age of contemplation leads me along the golden cloister with each footstep stirring new prayers of Thanksgiving. 



weeping willow
spot lit by sun
lifts my spirit



In spring woods today
I stood up close to old beech
with arms around
breathed in the woodiness –
while time flowed by
bare feet in the mast
arms at full stretch
we hugged
we merged 
we whispered secrets to each other

Beech held me there
till my pulse slowed
tears rained dark runnels 
from cheek to bark
lime leaves slowly opened
red squirrel clambered up
into my branches
moments passed
ages lingered
we shared it all

It’s hard now to leave
to move away
to see the scars of love
etched on your skin
promising eternity
grown gnarled and mossed over
did they keep their promise?
Will I?
16:4:20 THS


How I regret, how I regret, how I regret
I have not spent my entire life
in communion
with the sacredness of the land
I have had the privilege
to stand on.

I grieve and sob, grieve and sob, grieve and sob
for all that has gone,
for all that has passed.

For all the
forgotten reverence,
dismissed meaning.

All the 
turning away from
the offspring of creation.

And I nestle into this grief as I nestle down
by the roots of this grand oak,
where last autumn leaves and this spring’s grass 
make a fine cushion for a sore and sorry soul.

And I become quiet.

I hear a swelling around me,
a welling below me,
and feel unseen words entering me
from this wordless being:

Who says you have not lived your life
in communion with the sacredness of the land?
Who says it is so?

Is it your mind? 
Does this mind also say 
that you have been blown 
far from my roots, 
far from yourself, 
far from the truth of 
who you are?

What if I were to tell you 
what is really true – that you are 
the mist that caresses my roots,
the mist that gathers above the lake, 
turns and swirls across the fields, 
streams gleefully into the woods, 
simply because it is the nature of mist
to do just that?

What if I were to tell you 
that you make this land lush
along with the sun –
that your tears, your sobs
disperse droplets
like seeds, wide and far
spreading the message
that you have never been separate 
from the sacred land
on which you have always
been standing.

Would you believe me or your mind?

©️Diana Button

This poem was written last summer in Freiburg by a friend who was deeply moved while reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. While walking in the area Diana came upon a beautiful ancient oak tree that inspired her and this poem. Thank you Diana for letting me share this poem that speaks so deeply to my heart.

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