.
Lead me not into temptation of thee,
taunt me not with memory of thy desire,
tease me not with thy seduction of lust,
for thou hast cast a *** spell I admire.

Come hither, bring the grail of thy body,
take me as thy man and mark me,
cast thy symbol 'cross my naked skin,
submit to thy urge and smile at me darkly.

Cut deep, wield thy passion with honour,
thy tongue my ardour to bring alive,
thou employ wicked witchy womens ways
and I see Need deep within thine eyes.

Come hither, bring the paragon of thy want,
give nymph chance to thy beating soul,
shatter me softly with thy perfumes,
take thy fill of love and sagely lose control.



© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)

.
Soothing winds from the north
spread neatly across the world.
Bringing chills and ice and quiet,
hailing the arrival of the Winter Girl.

Her sire, Jack Frost, so proud.
Her mother, the Moon, is waiting.
Her silver white hair grows wild,
a testament to their Spring mating.

Her eyes sparkle and smile,
orbs riding on a golden tide.
Her head bows with mute consent
like a first time blushing bride.

And her entrance is most stately,
announced with a carpet of snow.
The Winter Girl is birthed anew
as northern winds begin to blow.


© Pagan Paul (2015/16/17)

.
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Shady summer pond
Dragonflies hover in air
Welcoming the day
<>



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
The night the Veil is thinnest
between the living and the dead.
Samhain eve reverberates darkly,
Worlds hanging by a single thread.

The Moon is high and midnight approaching,
as she slips from beneath the sheets so warm,
gently placing her wand in the secret drawer,
dressed in her hooded cloak, making for the door.
Barefoot along a path so long and  dark,
accompanied by the sounds of insects chirping,
the night songs creeping around her body,
Spirits of the Night smile at her wanton flirting.
Her legs carry her across green meadows
and on through the deep woods to a field,
drawn by hunger to a lonely figure on a hill,
she lets drop her cloak, her nakedness revealed.

Alone and pinioned, arms extended,
a warning stood upon a mound,
the guardian, a sentinel unbended,
statuesque, and tithed to the ground.

Her voice lifts high above the wind
and soft incantations fall as spells.
The Enchantress sings songs of yearning,
chiming along with Samhains bells.
And the warm midnight air shimmers
as the figure starts to turn to flesh,
reconstruction from the sacred heart,
for her painful memories to redress.

Thunder rolled, lightening flashed,
as she sank down to her knees,
reaching out to release his manhood,
and the howling wind began to ease.
His responsive flesh quickens with blood,
but not one sound does he make,
as she spies a grin upon his face,
a true sign that he was fully awake.
Lips and tongue work hard to arouse,
so his wand would stand with pride.
She stands up trembling and bending over
reversing a step to take him inside.
The storm rages with wild abandon,
like their frantic mating upon the hill.
Then as conjoined lovers reach ******
the storm is spent, and everything is still.

And the Spirits of the Night smiled upon her bliss,
at the Enchantress Crossing the Veil of the Abyss.

And with the passing of the storm
the spell died and was no more.
The one thing that her lover left,
her ****** purse filled with straw.

So smiling at her naughty nights play
she set her feet towards her home,
on this the very darkest of nights,
where both the living and dead roam.
Along the paths and back to her bed,
she giggles manically and starts to sing,
hoping the future reveals her joy,
of what her scarecrow lover may bring.

Samhain night over, to deep sleep she goes,
and soon Winters Solstice bells will ring,
It is then her dreams will surely know
whether her belly will swell in the Spring.


© Pagan Paul (15/10/17)

.
The night sky reflects the macrocosm,
swollen Universe in all of its glory.
Laying girdled in repose and hush,
across time with an endless story.

The sun light reflects the microcosm,
miniature Universe in celebration regail.
Laying gilded in gold and dewdrops
riding time with a ceaseless tale.

The microcosm reflects the macrocosm,
the Universe mapped in a tiny mind.
Laying guarded, cradled in rainbows,
through time with its Nature confined.


© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
A gemshorn and a mandolin
strike up counterpoint melodies,
as a harp and viola
caress the notes of a minuet.
Soft waves of music creep
around the joy of the Hall,
cuddling the fibres of granite stone
with a warming fire for all.

And she steps to the fore,
slippers of silk gliding so slow,
eyes as blue as robins eggs,
smile sweet as a full moons glow.
Hair laced with summer flowers,
a long dress of velvet green,
and the shawm she is ready to play
held lightly by fingers so keen.

Her tongue moistens shyly,
as the reed approaches her lips,
with fingers dancing over holes,
and deftly into a trance she slips.
Descending chords in choral hue,
drip colours into an aching heart,
the sweetest of mediaeval muses,
playing well her minstrels part.


© Pagan Paul (21/10/17)