The Call

The night calls to me.
To be out of this lovely room.
Into the wild darkness
under a crescent moon.

The breeze catches my nightgown.
I float upward into the clouds.
I hear voices and drums.
a flicker of firelight.

I hover near a campsite.
I see them…
Gathered around,
telling stories and mysteries
of forgotten times.

I settle on a nearby branch, to listen.
They call to the shining ones.
A voice answers on the wind.

Here and now is revealed.
The present is the time to act.
I watch sacred rites
and hear ancient words.

There is an ornate bell.
The old one,
rings its mellow pitch.
The fire blurs …

I wake in my bed.
What a strange dream.
And there, on the nightstand
the brass bell gently burnished
from much handling.

I take it in my hands.
And see a carved word, Diana.
A crescent moon design
weaves in and out intricately.

And then I remember,
The Gypsies.
The ones who remember
The Moon Goddess.