Larks above the Mist

 

Epona, Mother of the grain

Apple maker, source of rain;

Sanctify our homes today.

 

Epona, Mother of the herd,

Mare and newborn foal begird;

Sanctify our droving way.

 

Epona, Guardian of the dead,

Succour those whom you have led;

Sanctify our lives today.

 

Epona, Mother of the mists

Living Spirit none resists

Sanctify our upland ways.

 

Epona, life of every stream

Pike & perch, trout and bream,

Sanctify our watery ways.

 

Epona, Goddess of the sky

Lifting heavenwards all that fly

Sanctify the light today.

 

Epona, Goddess of the night

Moon and starry points of light

Sanctify the dark today.

 

 

 

 

Past the Equinox, Epona’s form

Glorifies the southern sky each night;

Pearls upon her belt, bright shoulder clasps,

Draw up our eyes, our praises and our thanks

As she leads the stallion of the sun

To spark the night with silver from his hooves.

 

Two days before we lit the Solstice fire

My father died and our mid-summer joy

Was quieter for the loss, even though we’d known

His life would not last out another year.

As his eldest, I will take his axe

Along the ridge, down to the Isis pools,

Where I will break and drown it, giving thanks

To the goddess of our hearth and herds.

But summer grants scarce time for journeying

When harvest and dropped foals demand our all,

The barley cut, the apples picked and juiced

For winter bread and Samhain’s winter wine.

Now that the cattle have been culled and those

Remaining wintered inside banked coralls

Or barned beneath our huts to that their warmth

Carries us across long winter nights

Where, even if the grain runs out and meat

Is scarce, we will survive till Solstice comes.

A steerhorn calls beyond the palisade

Summoning the stallion of the sun

To flood with autumn warmth the valley floor

Where night-guards stretch, pick up their shields and spears,

And sidle through the softly opening gates

Towards their huts, cold meat and morning mead.

 

 

I pray, while she hangs in the southern sky,

For succour on my solitary way

‘Gentle Epona, secure my pilgrim steps

Past ancient tombs –where silent bones await

The coming dead – far east along the Ridge,

Down to the sacred pools on Isis’ bank.’

Dawn, but rolling mists block out the sun

As I approach  the ancient Sanctuary.

The circling timbers, seen across the downs,

Stand like the wraiths of ancestors, alert

Yet passive to my presence and my prayer.

I leave a coin in token of my pledge.

There’s little time upon this eastward path

To pay respects to unknown ancestors

Who lie beneath thesilent burial mound

South of the track, silhouetted on

The low ridge running westward from the vale

Sacred long before bronze makers came.

The morning trumpets sound from Silbery

Rippling down to me on Kennet side

Calling to the flocks and sleeping cattle

Who wait the cull and feast of Samhain Eve.

But I must be in Avebury to join

The morning offerings of bread and salt and wine.

These stones have stood far longer than recall

And tribal myths don’t spin their origin

But thousands must have toiled to drag these blocks

From the far west down to this sacred place

Cutting the banks, raising the palisades

To honour gods we cannot even name.

I stand mute at the outer edge

While priests before me murmur to the gods

In words I’m barred from hearing till the day

They speak them over my now lifeless corps

Preparing my soft body for the birds

My bones for burial and my soul for grace.

All ceremonies done, I can set out

Though mists on every side make all seem strange

And paths, familiar to me, melt away

Into a bland, damp greyness where the sound

Of frightened birds, aroused by my soft steps,

Are the sole traces of a living world.

Mid-morning, but the mists have not dispersed

Culling the path to a stone’s throw ahead.

Within the grey, a darker shape appears

Forming itself into a monstrous head

Vast and threatening as I approach

But smudged of detail or identity.

Only when I’m close enough to smell

The moss and hear the sodden branches drip

Do I begin to see the blackened trunks

Of the beech copse, sacred to Sol Epona.

Tiptoeing in, the golden canopy

Drops its quiet blessing on my head.

My mind is drifting, almost to prophecy,

As I climb the hilltop, where we herd

The horses for the winter, sensing that,

Two thousand years from now the Iron Folk

Will raise a fortress, Beranburgh by name,

To expel the herders from our native land.

On open downland, along Smeathe’s Ridge,

The feral horse herds are left free to roam

Before the Beltane cull and the skill

Of metal-priests who cast the bronze into

The bits and bridles, broaches and spear-heads

Can tame the noblest stallions and mares.

I move on through wooded paths, across

The River Og, and into copses where

Plate mushrooms drip their primordial slime

Onto the rotting leaves and sodden moss

Clogging my feet, chilling bone and mind.

A wind cuts from the east as I emerge

Onto the upland moor, where grazing herds

Are silhouetted dark against the edge,

Moving silent as they crop and watch

Each other, until one breaks free to canter

Off to disappear into the mist.

The valley drops away from Pillow Mound

And on the southern side, a white mare stands

Alone, unmoved, as if she might become

One with the hillside and an icon cut

Like other figures, deep into the chalk.

The larks above the mist which drew me on

All yesterday have vanished as I squelch

This early morning back towards the ridge

And that ancestral tomb which sits just west

Of Dragon Hill and Uffington’s White Horse

Leaping with the sun into the east.

Seen from Dragon Hill, the Horse leaps westward

Sinking its head beneath the rough-cut mounds

Yet, close to, its form seems to unwind

Vanishing in arcs of blazing light

And casual hints of where it might have been

Linger as chalk scars in the turf.

My way runs through a beech wood where the trunks

Stand like the ritual way, leading me

Down naves of skybound columns, canopied

In shimmering gold, entwined with ivy polished

And patterned like the snaking armlets, cast

Cut and burnished for the goddess’ praise.

As stars appear and the new moon rises

I set a bothy for the long night’s rest

Stacking branches and the lying moss

To keep the wind from chilling me too far,

Warm beneath the wolf-skins and the furs

Of squirrel, ferret, weasel and black mole.

Day break, and the mist which lay unmoved

Has vanished, though the sky above’s still grey

And the wind which dropped as the night fell

Cuts keenly as I break my fast, before

I start my last day towards the confluence

Of sacred streams and this long ridgeway path.

The country here is changed, the copses, filled

With fir and ash, darker and denser set

Between the open downs where herds still roam

Or race across the open headed moor.

A flurry of finches bobs from hedge to hedge

Keeping a gentle distance from my face.

Unseen above, three larks seem to mock

A kite hovering, hungered after days

Of mist which kept him from his prey

Lurking, preening in the autumnal fields.

Two thousand starlings flow silent across

Then lift to murmur in the evening light.

A wood so full of rooks, the trees could be

Alive, but one by one they rise and circle

Silently until the sky is darkened

By their flight, and all the noise is stilled,

As they cloak the evening with their wings.

The pathway drops toward the valley floor

Where the river weirs and shallow runs

Allow a crossing even at full flood.

 

Here beside the shrine I break the axe,

Cast it in silence out across the weir

To vanish in the water’s broken edge,

As if it had never been, and I

Who cast it, will as quickly disappear

To leave no trace, save fleeting memories

Among the few I loved and who loved me.

 

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