In the prize-songs of falling snow she sits
Coats hair and fur alike in silken ice
But for the Matrons, none’d think ever twice
If she is learned well of burial pits
Or whether crumbling leaves left tear-drawn slits
Along her dew-stained stone and cloying vise
Will she take chase the wolves which souls entice
As their ice-sharp fangs shake her touch to bits?
And yet a glance from her brings the cold to weigh
Bright-burning coals, smothered in earthy grounds
Beneath her feet, sweet clovers bud from decay
To grow new warmth of frozen funeral mounds
And bid spring waters ferry the dead away
Blessed Cuda, Lady of the otherbounds.
Last October I was visited in a dream. I was greeted silently by a goddess with wild, wavy hair the colour of wheat, tangled in the trees around her. Elsewhere it was dark and the shadows seemed to encapsulate us.
I did a drawing of her and came out with a seated woman with a tree emerging from the crown of her head. It was vivid enough greeting for me to write it down in my notebook with question marks. I put the drawing away because I was coming up with nothing at the time.
I realized today when I wrote and painted Cuda earlier this week, I was referencing the being from that forgotten drawing. Since I first reached out to her in prayer, and then in Awen, her presence has already ingrained itself in my life path. I will be able to say more about what I mean when May arrives.