Not of father, nor of mother
Was my blood, was my body.
I was spellbound by Gwydion,
Prime enchanter of the Britons,
When he formed me from nine blossoms,
Nine buds of various kind:
From primrose of the mountain,
Broom, meadow-sweet and cockle,
From the bean in its shade bearing
A white spectral army
Of earth, of earthy kind,
From blossoms of the nettle,
Oak, thorn and bashful chestnut
Nine powers of nine flowers,
Nine powers in my combined,
Nine buds of plant and tree.
Long and white are my fingers
As the ninth wave of the sea.
Mabinogion (Hanes Blodeuwedd)
The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-coloured silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three-mewed falcon was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek was redder than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And therefore was she called Olwen.
Goddess...when not quite one or the other, She is Olwen....
Transformation is fleeting, but pivotal...it is key in order to grow.
She is hidden, secret, and very rarely seen.
She is the face that no man may look at and live.
But she is also the face of change and of pain...of the ache which ensues during healing. She is the momentum one needs to move forward... And she is the one who comforts the dying on the battlefield.