I dreamed there were thirteen treasures in Britain,
Not the wealth of feudal kings, nor yet their power,
No weapons of war, no tools for control.
I saw the generous loom
Taking but a small handful of threads
To warm and clothe a humble back.
The log that burns and yet remains.
Come near it and find warmth
Though the winter be long and harsh.
A seed that is a garden, plant it now,
Harvest its bounty in the days ahead.
Cause the barren soil to flourish.
The wooden cup, hand-turned cherry
Fill it as you please for any draught
Brings ease for every sorrow.
Honey sweet candle, never smoking,
Burns but sets naught else aflame.
Lights the dark night of the soul.
The golden sheep shares wool to warm
You all, gives milk and comfort
Inspires kindness in all who meet her.
An amulet of Goddess power,
Protector of child bed and labour,
Safety to the wearer and her babe.
A touch of the toadstone eases all
Relieves the aches and pains of life,
Keeps none from death’s final blessing.
The ever full cauldron of porridge
Creamy thick and filling bellies,
No hunger unsated, no body refused.
The heroic axe, tree felling in one blow,
Drawing shape from wood at need,
Never will it bite flesh or taste blood.
The singing kettle, making golden tea
From water alone. Soul feeding,
Hope brewing, reviving the weary.
The wooden spoon, kitchen enchanting,
Stirring friendships, celebrations,
The feast that makes community.
Thirteen treasures. I would find them in kitchens,
At hearths, the magical hiding in plain sight
Wondrous only when we share this bounty with each other.