Gift Of The Billy-goat King

Spirit Gift His name was Yowann - I helped at his birth On the day that he took his first breath on this earth, Then he sprawled out his legs and he gave a short bleat And he clambered at last to his little cleft feet, The pride of his mother, the joy of the herd! Lord Clement, his father, long-bearded, rough-furred, Stood watching, alert, then he rolled his gold eye And shook his great billy-goat horns to the sky. He was playful, Yowann, and as he grew on, Was the swiftest, the nimblest, the wittiest one, Red-headed and fiery, quick-tempered and bold He was built like a prince when he reached a year old. He matured and he mellowed, was noble and kind, With affectionate heart and intelligent mind, With his pride and his strength and his powerful will For he knew beyond knowledge, with clairvoyant skill. The herd-sire he stood, with his herd in his view Magnificent, elegant, sensitive too. In loving telepathy each goat communed, For in his kingly radiance, all were attuned. Yes, it was a privilege, knowing that goat So flaming his spirit, so fiery his coat, His eyes were the wildest of devil-deep eyes His horns read the mystical waves of the sky. Now his mother, Melissa, a wise nanny, she, I’d milked her for years - she was sister to me With her wild, witty wisdom distilled over time Some forty millennia, wisdom sublime... She watched as I bonded, in awe, with her son, She had no delusions and laughed at the fun, For his summer was coming and clearly she saw Just how it would end when the season was o’er.

’Twas the month of the rut, in his glory ablaze, He was beautiful, singing his love songs of praise For the sweet oestrous flowering in each splendid doe he filled them with love: vibrant, lustrous, aglow! He shook out his musk and his voice rang out loud He ’got daughters and sons, he was joyous and proud! Till at last like a flower, like a fully blown rose, The rut was expended, and came to a close. Each doe held a seed of his miracle spirit, You could feel it, and smell it, and see it and hear it, His gift to the earth. His progeny won, Shook his horns to the sky and declared his work done. I loved him – he loved me. Melissa she laughed For it’s known to the goats that we humans are daft As I hugged his rank neck, never minding the smell, While he winked from his devil and wove me a spell, And I saw with his eyes the broad worlds of the spirit With his horns discerned it, with his ears I heard it, I saw the fine Arial herds wild and free And the beautiful fauns that were their company. In deep Astral valleys I saw the goats roving Midst Etheric mountains their leaping and moving, And then, higher up, in a land of delight I saw him, Yowann, enhaloed with light! I saw him surrounded by delicate does With beautiful natures and wisdom that flows With the waters they drink from fair mystical fountains That well midst the flowers in the clefts of those mountains. When the vision was over the power of his eyes That had helped me to see through the veils of the skies Released me. I saw him all earthbound again With the glory and power of his rut on the wane.

‘He must go,’ said Melissa, as only goats can. ‘He’s a beast of the cosmos, not bound like a man To these Earthly concerns. There’s a contract, you see, Between goats and goat-keepers, and he’s paid his fee.’ ‘He must go!’ Was it true? Oh, but how could it be? Yet it must – such a spirit must surely go free. My hand touched his horns, his beard brushed my hand, And I knew that his spirit was now in that land. He yearned, he repined, became restless and cried. His service was done, it was time that he died, No tiger or wolf to release him through death, To yield up his soul with his last dying breath. Melissa’s gold eye with its vertical slot That sees many worlds that we humans see not Was no longer laughing, but solemn and stern. They meant it! ’Twas time for Yowann’s return! One shot of the rifle – he died with a roar Then he raced with a herd he had run with before And I thought that I saw as his rope I untied It was our world of matter, not his world that died! His mother, Melissa, deep-mourning the loss, Affirmed his demise and the bridge he would cross To that mystical mount where now holy he stands At the head of his herd in those magical lands. Yes, deeply she sighed – for she was bereft, Then she turned her wise eyes on the carcase he’d left, For they’re proud of their skins and their bones, horns and meat It’s an insult to waste them; and she bade me eat. So with reverence, grateful, with care and respect, I butchered him, never his gift to reject, And I felt as I worked that he lingered to stand by and bless with his spirit this work of my hand. His meat gave me soul-strength, I’m grateful for this,

His skin is my shaman drum, its spirit his. And its very first song, rich, vital and thrilling, And filled with his voice was - ‘i’m pleased with the killing!’