Mother Dun

Mother Dun

Lowthin, T. A.; On the River Don, near Doncaster, South Yorkshire


There was a time when all of Her was free; to dance, to weave, to dart, to dash, to smother and embrace; to carve to rip, to tear, to temper and create.

When once She was both abundant and ferocious; ever giving and asking a little in return.

Yet even then, in those idealistic days, She was taken for granted.  Still She loved ardently, passionately, savagely and protectively.

But as She and we became slaves to our industry, we took her Her body, whipping and pounding, finally enslaving Her. We raped Her, locked Her up, forced Her to disappear under the trappings of our wants; the grime, the dirt, and greed.  Her life stolen till She was almost un moving, almost departed.  Almost…


Diverted and restrained within urban boundaries, chained to wheels within wheels, used, neglected and forced to labour, to quench the unquenchable thirst of Vulcan.

We ignored Her entreaties, until at last She could no longer surface, pushing Her down beneath our consciousness.

We poisoned Her with our voracity, our need and incarcerated Her. Yet,

She endured.

We closed our ears, our minds, our hearts, and could not be reasoned with; worse still, we changed Her name to ease our guilt.

Then and only then did we miss Her.  We lamented Her gentleness, Her bounty and Her beauty.  We created our own mythologies, our histories and Her-stories; we re-imagined our love for Her. For it was never our intention and it was never our fault; denial is a river in Egypt, or so they say.

Then, and only then, when all seemed lost; when She lay beaten,  bound and discarded. When She foul and poisoned wallowed in our contempt. Then did She allow Her rage to drag her back.

Biding Her time, refusing to go quietly into that obscure night, at last She rose and roared; took back that which is Hers.

She came for us, arms open, reached ever wide. Ripping us from the embrace of others. roaring, bawling, raged and screamed, spreading Her fury,  reminding all of Who and What She Was and Is and Can and Always Will Be.

She ran through the city, a daemon, devouring and spitting out the bilious, bloated rotting carcasses of those who had forgotten or despised Her.

For that is how  I returned to Her.

Torn away from those who knew me.  In the darkness, my back against the stone, my skirts pulled high and legs wide open, She ripped me from the embrace of monsters.

Whispering her truth to me; her icy fingers reconnoitred me and discarding the corporeal mess of broken bones, she saved me.

I did not understand; I did not want to know. I did not believe and in my anger and bitterness, I  lay lost and sullen for many years; my face turned against Her.

I stared into the darkness. Refusing to hear the ripples of Her silent pleas.

But She patiently encompassed me, singing psalms of holy places, tabernacles and sacred sees.  Of when Her children would come to Her willingly. When they were laid in Her arms to sleep.  When they brought Her gifts of flowers, of food and ale, of coin, of fowl, and first born. And thanked Her for her copiousness.

She whispered silently, lamenting of the times when they had forgotten Her. When She had laid mutilated beneath their dirty streets. Yet even then, she laughed,  She had taken or persuaded two or three.

She told me of Her loneliness, Her need to ever be.  And with this she kissed away my tears, caressed my hair, and made me whole again. Unborn and unbirthed, remade, I understood.

So now, under these harsh neon lights, I stand for Her. Her supplicant, Her Priestess. Betwixt and Between. By these stony bows that have long adorned Her; My Lady’s Bridge; for indeed She is a my Lady, my Goddess, my Mother. Creatrix and Devourer.

And in these early hours I whisper to those who unsteadily stagger pass; Consoling those who welcome death who stop to gaze into Her moving bliss.

The despised woman whose heart has yet again been broken. The ruined man whose only comfort is found in the pound of unwilling flesh. The lost, the separated, unstable on their feet; the homeless who hide in the shadows, mistreated, mislaid, forgotten and unwelcome.

I comfort them and speak of similarities.

And those who will not coming willingly, who change their minds and fight for breath. I hold them in my arms and whisper bitter promises, as we descend to Her ever cold and flowing emptiness.

‘The shelving, slimy river Dun…each year a daughter or a son.’ – Joseph Hunter circ 18th century


River Don Lady's Bridge

© Shullie H Porter 2016 – 2017


Published by The Delightful Mrs P

Witch, Writer, Card Slinger, Chocolate Lover, Tea Drinker, Cake Eater & Mystic. A Northern Lass, a Walker between and betwixt. I'll talk to Anyone, dead or alive.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Allyson Shaw, Author of Ashes and Stones

Creative Nonfiction, Scottish Folklore and Online Writing Courses

Light in Extension: A Magical Journal

"Inheritor of a Dying World, we call thee to the Living Beauty. Wanderer in the Wild Darkness, we call thee to the Gentle Light..."

The Witchualist

witchcraft, ritual, sorcery


for the readers.

Strange Goings On In The Shed

A Scrapbook of Myth, Magic and Memories


Practitioner of the sexual magic of BABALON, transdisciplinary artist & writer

Romancing the Gothic

All the Gothic, All the Romance, All the Time.

Jessica Grote

Musings & Reflections

Foxglove Journal

poetry and fiction

Josephine McCarthy

Magical musings in a strange world

Carrot Ranch Literary Community

Making literary art accessible 99 words at a time!


A.G. Diedericks

Live to Write - Write to Live

We live to write and write to live ... professional writers talk about the craft and business of writing


Irish Folklore: Calendar Customs, Traditions & Beliefs

Folk Horror Revival & Urban Wyrd Project ⨘

from the forest, from the furrows, from the field ... and further

Kim Moore Poet

Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction

Lonesome October Lit

haunting and horrific poetry and fiction since 2017

%d bloggers like this: