Avaloch

Holy hill of apple trees,
Blossoms pink and white,
Rich nectar for the honey bees,
And perfumed scent at night.
 
Upon your roots, is cider poured,
Libations flowing free,
To offer to the goddess,
Her harvest gift we’ll see.
 
So take my hand, come sit with me,
Let mysteries be told.
And venture on to Avalon,
Our journey to unfold.
 
Never fell an apple tree,
This our old ones say.
For it will bring the worst of luck,
And death will come your way.
 
From long before the Eden tales,
and the fall of man from grace,
the fruit of Olwen, so revered,
Throughout the Celtic race.
 
 
So take my hand, come sit with me,
Let mysteries be told.
And venture on to Avalon,
Our journey to unfold.
 
Within the orchard of the apple,
Seductive fruit abound,
Food of the Gods, food of the dead,
My nemeton I’ve found.
 
Raise high the chalice,
And wassail with me,
Blessed the harvest,
of old apple tree.