Warm tones glazing over wharves of receding lands,
join the procession of men in saffron robes.
Dragon’s fire, knotted roots, whispers of sandals
through leaf-molded earth, chant, chant, chant
against all darkness opposing.
Silas has come to die today, in that ditch by the
meadow, thirteen miles in where the woods wind into
the semi-circle of a dark green grove. With silent
lips by huddled masses, the priest weeps, hungry for
the low lisp of a cricket’s call.
White animal bones, ritually placed under the thick
fog of a winter’s moon, reflect the light of sudden
frost. Oh Magus martyr, sleep! Cernunnos blesses you
with solace as nature holds up her mirror to the wild,
devoted creatures of the night.
Under the arching heavens, odorous trees bring incense
to bonfires inebriating the Kerridge hills, untouched by
the molten blue of morning. Song of Amergin, act of
sacrifice; effaced footprints in the soil, victory is yours!
Rain falls in the warmth of summer.