This poem speaks to those of us who are entering or living the years of the crone, who are hoping with our own lives to change the modern perception of the crone (the Cailleach) from mean and sinister old hag to…crone as wise woman…crone as keeper of the mysteries…crone as the final flowering of wisdom, freedom, and personal potential…and finally, crone as a gateway to the infinite.
A time, perhaps, when our souls can finally shine through the thin skin of our physical being.
Weathering, by Fleur Adcock
My face catches the wind
from the snow line
and flushes with a flush
that will never wholly settle.
Well, that was a metropolitan vanity,
wanting to look young forever, to pass.
I was never a pre-Raphaelite beauty
and only pretty enough to be seen
with a man who wanted to be seen
with a passable woman.
But now that I am in love
with a place that doesn’t care
how I look and if I am happy,
happy is how I look and that’s all.
My hair will grow grey in any case,
my nails chip and flake,
my waist thicken, and the years
work all their usual changes.
If my face is to be weather beaten as well,
it’s little enough lost
for a year among the lakes and vales
where simply to look out my window
at the high pass makes me indifferent to mirrors
and to what my soul may wear
over its new complexion.