Larks above the Mist (part 2)

Epona, Mother of the mists

Living Spirit none resists

Sanctify our upland ways.

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 the silent 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 of Samhain Eve.

But I must be in Avebury to join

The morning offerings of bread and salt and wine.

Brian Hick October 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 1.10.24