A ballad for Cuda


Beware the barking of blackbirds
Doves deal to you despair
When lightning takes from thrush their words
Crows carry in my hair

Away they rot in tundra frost
Until my roots awake
Before this baneful breath was lost
I spent much time in wait

When grass grows thistle-stung as should
I call all life to me
The Ladies of my whirling wheel
And Cuculatti three

Within fruitful fertile caverns
Are means to brew your mead
My veins make the pistil patterns
Sprout stamen in my need

How do I grow from winter’s sign,
Or keep away the chills?
Well, my touch is hot as sunshine
My form like heaving hills

Upon me sits a cavern bear
Who nourishes my core
She takes my children in her care
Tenacious as a boar

I teach spiders hunting pollen
Disguised in petals white
To grow graves on leaves of cauline
Protecting us from blight

Take my meat to feed the ploughmen
My blood to feed the wives
My feet follow maiden linen
And draw their virile lives

When from the sodden land they crawl
I keep their heartaches warm 
For each ring ‘round I hear a call
From ancient bones who warn

Of ice-age waiting in the dark
And all-consuming flood
But with my cloak and verdant spark
We’ll watch the flowers bud

So while the hunters till, it’s said
All parents I entrust
My scent to bring desires to head
And bear like rivers’ rush

For even guiltless daughters
With sorrow laden sons
Watch with stars reflecting waters
My light from many suns

Break bread with me, and count my eggs
My guardians watch you well
They whisper secrets from the dregs
From birth until your knell

For we’ll provide the sprouts of life
To do your bloodlines good
An eternal growth, free from strife
Awaits at Cuda’s Wood.


After my morning meditation yesterday I sat and did a further bardic meditation with Cuda. It started when I found a deceased blackbird in my yard and wanted to pay my respects. Cuda imparted in me this ballad about her domain and how it has evolved over the past 30,000 years.

I have been struggling with my self-worth lately. I feel incredibly unsure of everything. But it seems that others heard me. They heard my poems at Nettleton Shrub, and my prayers to the regentiâ (ancestors) at Stonehenge. Since then I have felt a more present… presence, I suppose.

The Cuculatti spoke to me. They have never reached to me outright, and I’ve been too intimidated myself. They gave the image of Cuda embracing an antlered traveler from Doggerland, wrapping them in a fur cloak.

They then imparted that they want a shrine, so I will do what I can.

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