Mother Night.
I begin with you
but not at the beginning,
that widening wound in Nothingness
birthing Being, the gasp before the Gods.
With you and Darkness.
Children, siblings, lovers,
parents of Aether and Day.
A blue-bright boy to a dark father,
to the blackest of mothers
a shining girl of light.

Mother Night.
By grace of Dawn
your crown is laid upon your daughter’s brow.
Pale opal silver turned to quivering gold,
cold bone of Moon to marrow blood of Sun,
obsidian stillness broken by brash bronze.
Your daughter’s unbound brightness rides the day
until
the flaming flood The Evenings have unleashed
brings horse and daylight to a halt
and to your darkening hall.

Mother Night.
Mother of Dream and Death,
of Sisters weaving lives and snipping fates,
of Vengeance stalking through the hearts of men.
Unfold your starlit wing’s unending span,
bless those who sleep as well as those who hunt,
and grant us grace,
good
Night.

[Hailing from Zaragoza in North-East Spain, Manuel W Balaguer-Cortés has been living in Scotland for the last 21 years. His writing meanders around the world of nature and that of sacred myth, and it is informed by a Pagan Polytheist spirituality. He also plays European traditional music on a number of weird woodwind instruments. He was shortlisted for the 2015 Poetic Republic Poetry Competition.]