Created fully formed,
Fair of face,
Like a flower, they said.
Created with a pleasing figure,
And tawny hair,
And skin that smelled of blossom.

For what? For who?

Created as a mate,
A pleasure doll,
For a man they called sure of hand,
Lleu, the empty, the vacant,
Created, like me,
For a purpose he cannot fathom.

For what? By whom?

Hooo, Gwydion, the mage,
Trickster without morals.
A master of words
he could create nothing real.
So he conjured his son from his sister’s womb,
My rod will prove your virtue, he said.

So what? And who?

A court he built us,
Simulacra enthroned,
Surrounded by buffoons.
No bards here, they are
the wards of Lleu’s dam,
And she has barred them.

So what? So whom?

They exist here, empty.
Their discourse unconsidered, repeating
the words that Gwydion whispers,
Conversation as programmed as
Lleu’s skills. Can they not see
what is clear to my vision?

See what? See whom?

Automata all, their words, their
deeds, their thoughts, all can be predicted.
They follow their dull natures, no Awen in their eyes.
I, I see the world, ablaze with life,
Potential in every grove,
But I am trapped, with them.

Now what? Now who?

Hooo, but there came a man,
Gronw, lord from Ceridwen’s lands.
At last, a living mind, a hot desire,
a mind full of sparks and heat!
Worthy of my love, he it was
Who truly awakened me to life.

What then? Where to?

Hooo, we laid plans. Two truly living, we
Must love together. Poor Lleu, no
real man in any way, must die.
No hate, no rancour, there was really
No-one there. But Gwydion, meddler,
Manipulator, he saved his creation at the last.

What next? What news?

Poor Gronw, my hunter, my oak,
he was felled by the fair-haired one.
My husband’s hand was true;
Not so, my lover’s guards. Sworn to
die, they did not earn their mead.
Dishonoured, they sit in shame with Lleu.

Tell what? Tell true!

Lleu remains on a barren throne, while I,
I, I it is now I who am the hunter.
I am given the night. Those slaves, they fear my call.
My lover’s spirit inspires me, fatal flower in flight.
Arianrhod adopted me; I, the moon’s adept,
Am now free, silent seer in the starlight.

I think this is the first poem I’ve written in over twenty years. I hope it isn’t too close to Vogon Poetry. I recently watched a presentation by Kris Hughes which was actually about Rhiannon, but during Kris’ discussion of the Fourth Branch a voice started murmuring at the base of my neck, and eventually Blodeuwedd’s words came through. I won’t go into what she said, but she confirmed what I had already begun to suspect: that she has been with me for many, many years, and it is now time for me to acknowledge that.

Image credit: Copyright the author 2020. All rights reserved.

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